Boondock Saints: Two Ravens
by MelThorn
Summary: Sequel to Righteous Souls, Blackened Wings. In this half of the first film's prequel, Connor and Murphy are given the ultimate test of faith when asked to join their new friend in assassinating what they assume are "evil" people. As they perform hits, they are determined to discover the true intentions of who has given them the job while avoiding conflict with each other.
1. Chapter 1

Fireworks rumbled across the Boston skies that night, as they had been since early that evening, and the show was close enough to home for Connor and Murphy to sit on the roof of their apartment building to watch them with a case of beer and several cigarettes. It felt strange to them that on that day they were to celebrate their freedom, when they had agreed not more than a few days ago to use it for the sole purpose of murdering people.

Detective Malone was strict, but his demands were crystal clear: they were to meet with him on Friday evening, ride with him to the target house, and he would give them some instructions. Though he made it sound like he'd be with them every step of the way, they had their doubts as to how well it could possibly go. Despite their skill with ranged weapons, they knew they weren't prepared for anything they'd be up against.

Connor, spending almost every waking second with Murphy, knew how nervous he was, but he could also sense a childlike excitement and fascination that he didn't possess. Perhaps Murphy had been more ready for this than he had been, and it made him all the more concerned for his safety and well-being. It almost made him regret how close they had become with each other—on levels most brothers didn't, he was certain. He already worried for Murphy while they merely loved each other as siblings. As more than that, he had to be twice as vigilant.

All of this and more had plagued Murphy's mind just as much as it had Connor's, and the fireworks show wasn't as enjoyable as he thought it would be now that they had so much tension between them. He wished Connor would speak to him, just tell him what was on his mind, but neither of them had any idea of what to say, as neither of them wanted to discuss that they had shaken hands with an assassin and told him they'd be willing to take the lives of others.

"Ya want ano'ter?" Connor asked his twin when the silence got too strong.

Murphy didn't hear him well enough over the fireworks that blasted his eardrums. "A what?"

"Ano'ter beer." He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and proceeded to smoke his third one in the past thirty minutes.

"Oh. Aye." That had been the longest conversation they had that day, and it felt almost like ripping off a bandage. Murphy hadn't felt this awkward around Connor since after they first had sex with each other. "Several." The sound of Connor's laughter was just the ticket for his stress. Connor placed a palm on the surface of Murphy's short, clipped hair and gave his head a brief stroke. Physical contact; it was exactly what they both needed after the unintentional distance they had created. Maybe they could remain the same around each other, after all.

Connor stood up off the ground and headed down the fire escape, into their filthy loft, kicking newspapers aside to grab another few beers from the fridge, which they recently had repaired. With the chilled brews in hand, he climbed back out to the steel stairs and jogged back to the top, and saw Murphy lying on his back with his hands tucked underneath his head.

Connor took a seat beside him and set the beers down on the cement, pleased to see that his brother had become more relaxed. After opening a can and gulping down a few sips, Connor lied down beside him and saw that the view of the multi-colored sky was much better from this angle. Murphy, however, wasn't watching the fireworks at this point.

"What if we die?" he asked Connor, who wasn't expecting him to open with such a horrific thought. "Or worse… if _one_ of us dies."

Connor didn't want to have this talk now. He just wanted to enjoy the show and their time together. "I don' t'ink we'll have much of a problem."

"Malone talked about us goin' against criminals and shit. Some of dem would be armed, I'm sure, if not all of dem."

"Murph," Connor sighed. "Dere comes a time when…" He bit his lip, thinking of how to continue. He shook his head in frustration that the answers were not coming as quickly as he would have liked. "We jus' gotta…" He sighed again and palmed his face. "We'll be fine."

"Ya don' believe dat," Murphy realized.

"Well, I'm tryin' to. I know how dangerous it'll be, all 'ight? And no, I don' want any'tin' to happen to us. If ya wanna back down from dis… jus' say so, and we'll tell him."

"No," Murphy snapped. "I don' wanna do dat." He grabbed an unopened can and snapped the cap off, slurping down the cool, heady beverage. "Fer once I kinda feel like we have dis purpose, ya know?"

"Aye," Connor answered. "We'll be all 'ight, Murph. Ya go into it scared, ya'll never have de nerve to start."

Murphy understood that concept. The only problem was that a lot of his fear was eliminated by alcohol, and so too was his judgment. He turned away from the bursting finale of fireworks to tuck his face into Connor's neck, loving him without words. Connor placed a kiss upon his forehead. For all Murphy knew, this might be the last time they'd ever be intimate with each other. He found it difficult to imagine how they'd be able to carry on their special link with each other after having killed people. Death wasn't very sexy, or romantic.

If it was the last of their tight connection, Murphy was sadder to see it fade away than he was at the thought of murder. Connor would always be in his life— always would be a part of him, always would be the one to get him out of scraps and tell him when he was wrong— but if they lost what they had grown to share over the past couple of weeks, he'd feel he had been separated from a part of Connor that he had learned to love and respect. The very idea of their dark path smiting whatever light had dawned on them depressed him. However, he'd try to make the most of it.

As the rapid booming of fireworks continued, Murphy put his mouth to Connor's already vibrating ear. "I love ya, Connie."

For five whole years, Connor had never heard these words from Murphy. He would find other ways of telling him: buying gifts, cooking food, or doing favors for him, but the words themselves were never forged from his lips, and for long enough that Connor had simply gotten used to it. Murphy acted on his feelings, never spoke on them, and Connor was a common victim to his icy demeanor.

If Murphy was feeling vulnerable enough to expose his underbelly to him, Connor knew that something was wrong, or soon would be. "We'll be all 'ight," he told Murphy after the explosions died down.

"I know. I jus'… wanted ya to know it."

Connor cradled him, clutched him against his chest, and drew in a concentrated inhalation. "I love you, too, Murph." He thought he heard his twin whimper. "Come on. Calm down. We'll be okay."

"What?" whispered Murphy, drying his eyes on Connor's shirt as he tried to hide his tears from him. "What are ya sayin' dat for? I know we will."

He didn't acknowledge Murphy's tears. He didn't want to upset him further. Things were already getting serious enough. "Jus' sayin'."

Now that the show was over, they picked up their drinks and headed back down to their apartment. Connor didn't get the chance to put his cigarette out in the ashtray before he was climbed upon by Murphy, who seemed to want to hang onto what he thought was their "final moments." Connor wasn't exactly in the mood for their particular type of playtime, but he could sense Murphy's desperation in the matter—in the way that he kissed him, the way he grabbed him and clawed at his shirt.

"Murph," Connor tried to protest, but Murphy continued to cling to him, lick and bite his lip. "Wait." He didn't have time to catch his breath once he said it before his twin was kissing him again.

"Please," Murphy begged him, clutching the back of Connor's neck, pulling at follicles of his short hair.

"I… I'm not feelin' it right now."

"Please, Connor." Connor didn't fight him off the next time he went in for a kiss, and he returned it with the same adulation and dynamism Murphy did. He knew what was on Murphy's mind. He thought that he'd change his opinion of him after they took on their new occupation, that he'd see him differently, and that he might not want to touch him again. Since their first fateful night together, Connor had no doubts that they were meant to be as close as they were, and though Murphy had felt compelled to agree then, he was too frightened to consider it now. Connor was certain that the idea of losing him forever put him in this mindset, and no matter how he worded the phrase "we'll be okay, you have to have faith," Murphy wouldn't buy into it.

If it would comfort him, Connor would do it. He opened his mouth wider, inviting his tongue into it, and when under the assumption that it would be their final time, it made it all the better, and yet all the more disheartening. Murphy grasped onto his neck for dear life, and didn't let go as Connor squeezed him around the waist, opening and closing his mouth around Murphy's as their tongues wrestled.

It was Connor who undressed first, and Murphy followed, removing an identical piece of clothing from his body each time Connor did. Then once they were both free of all restricting fabric, they jumped into bed with each other, Connor climbing atop him as though scaling the most stubborn of mountains. Murphy's arms never loosened from his neck, even while Connor pinned him down. During every other encounter between them, Murphy would sit upon him as Connor delivered his physical ardor from below, but this time, he was comfortable with Connor taking the reins, even enjoyed it better.

Connor smothered his twin with his mouth, kissing every inch of skin he saw as Murphy writhed beneath his roaming lips, sounding his approval and appreciation of the time and care Connor took to showing him affection through erotic moans. When Connor flattened his body against Murphy's, he connected their mouths as well as their hips as he dove inside of him. Murphy's cries were like music to his ears, as was Connor's grunts to Murphy's. After only having been interlocked for a few moments, Murphy was already begging him to give it to him rough. Connor had no issues, nor complaints about it. They were rough fighters, and thus, rough players.

Between every breath, Murphy gasped Connor's name, which Connor had to admit he loved, as well as the invigorating sensation of his fingers raking down his back. The end would come crashing into a glorious crescendo, better than any score ever composed, and Connor could feel it approaching with swiftness. Holding back was too much of a challenge, though he wanted to make it last as long as possible, but as Murphy was such a pure delight to make love to, he couldn't help himself. Murphy didn't require him to signal a warning that it would be over soon, because he could tell in the way Connor altered his thrusts. Murphy encouraged him, throwing his legs around his hips, pressing him harder against his hips as his pumps became more jagged.

Connor called out to his brother, his God, as well as any and quite possibly all neighbors as the climax was reached, one of the most explosive he had ever faced in his lifetime. "Oh, God," Connor chanted as he fell forward, hair and back soaking as though he had just been doused with rainwater. He continued to repeat this until he had forgotten why he was saying it in the first place. Murphy pulled at some of the short hair on the back of his neck while he came down from the greatest high he had ever reached the summit of, and as silence struck them, Connor thought one thing to himself:

_He thinks I'm going to just give up something like this? Is he out of his mind or just drunk?_

Murphy kissed on his face and neck, doting and grateful, clutching him in desperation.

"No'tin' will change between us, Murph," Connor vowed.

An oath didn't need to be sworn. Murphy knew it was a lie. "How do you know it won't?"

"How do ya know it will?"

"Let's not talk about it. Jus'…" He sighed, relaxing his legs, laying back, enjoying for a moment the pressure of Connor on top of him. "Lay wit' meh."

Connor did just that, though they had trouble fitting on the same bed. For the remainder of the night, neither of them spoke, just enjoyed it, whatever was left of it.

Rocco came to McGinty's late that evening, and Connor and Murphy had waited at least a few hours for him. To them, it could have been the last time they'd see him, but when Rocco noticed their gloomy faces, he wondered why. It had been way too long since he had heard them laugh. Whatever went on in their lives he knew they were too proud to discuss it, and he wasn't nosey enough to pry them of information.

When he joined them at the bar, he slapped both of their backs, and they leapt with fright as though they had been shot through the heart. Murphy's shot of whiskey dumped onto the bar top and he shouted a curse the entire room could hear.

"Shit," Rocco gasped. "Jumpy much?"

"Sorry," Connor panted. "It's been a stressful few days."

"I'll buy you a new shot, Murph," Rocco offered when he saw Murphy drop his head and pull his arms over it.

"S'all 'ight," he mumbled, dejected. Rocco tried to ignore the sniffle he heard.

"S'good to see ya t'ough, Roc," Connor told him with sincerity, though with traces of darkness, and Rocco's perplexity inclined each second he spent talking with them. Connor looked at though he hadn't slept in a couple of days, and usually he was so full of life.

"Uh… is something going on?" he finally questioned, unable to bear it any longer. "Did you guys take some of those pills again?"

"No, no'tin' like dat."

"Well what the fuck? This is McGinty's, not a damn funeral. Cheer the fuck up, already." He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he ordered his first beer of the night and sat to Murphy's right, who still had been too emotionally weak to converse.

"M'afraid it's not easily explained, Roc," Connor continued as he sat beside Murphy.

"Don't tell me you're going back to Ireland."

"No."

"S'been debated," Murphy added, rubbing his face.

"It's not some'tin' dat… we can really… talk to ya about."

Before leaning over to them, he looked around at the other patrons to see if any were in earshot. "Is it… you know…" When trying to bring the matter up, no words seemed appropriate enough. "I mean, when you guys… you know…" They stared at him, each of their pairs of eyes bloodshot. Rocco, exasperated, grunted. "You know?"

"No," they said together, amused.

"Fuckin' hell," he sighed, chugging half of his beer down.

Though their upcoming work lingered in the back of their minds, the conversation with Rocco did put smiles on their faces. He always knew how to light up a room. Before the night was over, they were joining him in drink and song, listening to his awful jokes, and yet laughing at them all the same. It was the perfect way for them to spend their last murder-free evening. Even Doc tried to lift their spirits.

After Murphy had consumed one too many shots, Connor announced to Rocco and Doc that he had to carry him home. They already saw it coming when Murphy started slurring nonsense. As he stepped out the door with his inebriated brother, he hauled him over his shoulder and walked down the street, listening to him trying to form sentences. He took him to his bed when he brought him into the apartment, turning in as well.

He would need his energy for tomorrow. All of it.

The shrill ringing of the telephone was what woke Connor, who could only slink toward it in a weak crawl. Once the receiver was in his hand, he flattened his body against the floor as he pressed it against his ear. "'Lo," he groaned into it.

"Two o'clock." It was the thick, mature voice of Malone, and he didn't sound as though he was in the mood for waiting around. "Be ready. Both of you."

"Aye," Connor let out in a long exhale. Malone hung up afterward, not giving Connor any details, though he didn't need any. He looked at the couch where Murphy was sitting, silent and contemplative, rubbing his throbbing head. "Well…" he said to his blank-faced twin. "It starts."

"I don' feel good," Murphy groaned.

"I know. But we can do dis. Try to stay calm, all 'ight? I'll be wit' ya de whole time."

"It's not dat. I got a fuckin' hangover."

Connor cracked a smile and helped Murphy to his feet, taking his chin in his palm and stroking it. "Take a shower. It'll help." Murphy obeyed him and staggered to the showers, coughing and grabbing his head.

Two o'clock was the time Malone promised he'd stop by, and he was ten minutes early when he showed up. When he knocked on the door, he saw that it wasn't latched shut. After giving it a nudge, it drifted open, and he saw Connor and Murphy sitting beside each other on one of the beds.

Eric Malone, who was dressed in a black button-down shirt and slacks to match, gave them a thorough observation as he stepped into the apartment. "Well," he said, watching them rise to their feet and shuffle toward him like zombies. "Don't you two look sunny this afternoon?" They said nothing to him. "Let's get going, shall we? We don't have a lot of time to work, so we'll have to make things quick." The brothers nodded. He waved for them to follow, and they did, all the way down to the street. When they didn't see his shiny, flashy car anywhere, Connor brought it up.

"Where's yer car?"

"_My_ car, Connor, is at my house," Malone told him as he walked them across the street to a white service van with a company name on the side of it. "People notice a car like mine. It's expensive, and stands out too much. Many people also know that I own one. Therefore… I am much more likely to be noticed if I drive it anywhere near my targets. The word for the day is?" He pointed to Murphy, who thought would vomit if he opened his mouth. Sighing, he pointed to Connor next.

"Um…" Connor trembled, intimidated.

"In…?"

"In…"

"Con…?"

"Inconspicuous?"

"Bingo." He slid open the side door for the van and gestured for them to climb aboard. They did as was commanded, sitting in the seats in the back. After Malone jumped into the driver's seat, he started the engine and took off. "White vehicles are always the best choice. A white vehicle is less likely to get pulled over. It is less likely to attract attention."

"What's de worst choice?" mumbled Murphy, still holding his stomach.

Malone turned down a street leading into a suburban neighborhood. "Red. You drive red, you may end up dead. That's what I tell the youth of today. Worse off would be something bright and colorful, spray painted, something that has those ugly fucking lights all over them. No one will steal it, but everyone will remember the asshole that drove it. Never stand out, gentlemen. You're one with the scum of the earth until you pull a trigger."

"Noted," Murphy uttered with a hint of begrudging in his voice.

"Aren't ya wearin' all black in de middle of de day?" Connor noticed.

"Wearing black doesn't hurt, as long as you're not covered in tattoos," Malone lectured. "Black is a professional hue, Connor, and I like to assume myself a professional."

"Professional horse's ass," whispered Murphy. Malone heard him, but made no comment.

Malone parked his van in the driveway of a luxurious house, one vacant of owners or visitors, other than themselves. After killing the engine, he turned halfway in his seat and faced his students. "This one should be an easy start for you both. Four people live here. Husband, wife, two kids. The husband is the only target."

Connor wanted to know the facts right away. "What'd he do?"

"Do?" asked Malone, wondering what he meant, then it dawned on him. He had forgotten for a moment that the MacManus brothers were under the impression that he only killed criminals. "Oh! Oh, Lord." He placed his face into his hand, attempting to appear solemn. "Are you sure you want to know?" Connor and Murphy both nodded, their attention hooked. "Well, there were rumors for a long time that the guy operates a child porn ring." Connor especially looked horrified; tear-stricken. "We never got the proof, because he destroyed most of the information on his computer, and he started hiding from us. I recently got a tip off that he's been buying some new camera equipment, and the children of the neighborhood are afraid of going near his house. I was told that he filmed a young boy, the boy told his parents, and no one believed him. The kid's in counseling now."

"Dat's _horrible!_" Connor gasped.

"Aye," agreed the nauseous Murphy, who felt sicker after the tale was finished.

"I know," Malone said, closing his eyes for dramatic effect. "I don't think our target's family knows about it. We have to make this one look like an accident, fellas; that he skipped town, possibly with another woman. I… uh… don't want the poor wife to know what her husband was up to."

"Lord, no," Connor expressed with sorrow. "Course not."

"What do we do?" Murphy asked.

Malone pulled back his sleeve to check his wristwatch. "I've already scouted the home for about a week. I know everyone's schedule by now. You'll join me on the next scout, but this kill needed to be done quickly. Our… _client_ is going on vacation and wanted to pay me before he left." The twins nodded at the same rhythm. "You're both going to come into the house with me. Don't worry, I won't always be there with you to babysit, but I need to watch you on our first go, make sure you don't… well, for lack of better words, _fuck it up_. Once inside, we'll hide, and wait. _Connor._" He pointed at him.

Connor sat upright. "A-aye?"

"You'll hide out in the bedroom closet. Make sure your gun is loaded." Connor removed it from his belt and checked the clip. "What are you doing?!" he snapped and Connor flinched, almost dropping it.

"Y-ya told meh to!"

"With your bare hands?!" Malone growled, closed his eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath, then reached into the car's console. "Christ," he grumbled to himself while he fished out a few pairs of black leather gloves. "Here. Put these on." He passed a pair to each of them, and once they took them, he slipped on a pair of his own. "Give me your weapons." They passed him their guns, apprehensive at doing so. He reached under his seat and removed a box, setting it in his lap and unlatching it. He rummaged around the assortment of tools until he found a cloth, which he used to wipe both guns off thoroughly, cleaning them of fingerprints.

When he passed the weapons back, they took them with caution. "Why are we doin' dis in the de daytime?" It was Murphy who asked.

"This is the only time the target will be alone," explained Malone. "In addition to that, the Neighborhood Watch program is much more alert during the night. Everyone is at home, eating dinner, tucking their kids in, reading them bedtime stories. If they hear a gunshot, they come running to check it out or call the police, especially in a quiet place like this." He checked his watch again. "Right now, both of our guy's neighbors are at work. They won't witness anything."

Breathless, the brothers drank in his every word. "He's really t'ought dis shit t'rough, hasn't he?" Connor said to his stunned twin.

"Guess so," answered Murphy.

"Now's the time, boys. _Murphy._"

Murphy was now the one to flinch. "Aye," he responded, his breath shaking.

"You'll be hiding in the hall closet. Our guy is going to come in through the garage. He does this every day. You will take the first shot."

He jabbed himself in the chest with his finger. "Meh?!"

"Yes. You. Now listen to me. If you lose your nerve, his next stop will be the bedroom, and your brother will take the shot instead. If your brother also loses the nerve, I'll take the shot from the banister as he crosses the living room to the kitchen like he does every time he comes home. Are we in agreement, gentlemen?"

A new sheet of sweat coated their faces, but they nodded regardless. Malone reopened the case he had earlier and pulled out a few things: A bottle filled with a liquid solvent, unlabeled; a sponge; towels, and slipped them into a black satchel. When he turned back toward the two shaking pure-of-heart siblings, he sighed.

"Keep your focus. I have faith in you both. You can do this." They swallowed, but it didn't make their throats any less dry. "I'll be watching out for you. All right. Let's roll."

Before exiting the van, Connor and Murphy nodded at one another. It was the point of no return.

There was no going back now.


	2. Chapter 2

The fabric of the mask Connor had pulled over his face was imbued with an overpowering aroma of aftershave, an unflattering brand that made him gag each time he took a breath, but he was in much better shape than Murphy, whose pace was slower than his and Malone's. He lagged so far behind that Malone had to stop and ask what his deal was. Murphy clarified that he and Connor went drinking the night before, and their cohort glared at each of them, muttered something about "kids," then led them into the house, which on first glance, they saw how well-furnished it was. It was the fancy artwork hanging on the wall that Connor had to took a moment to appreciate.

Malone walked over to the white door of the hall closet, which had several grooved, vertical slots running down the center. He directed that Murphy get inside of it, and he obeyed, but not without clutching his own mouth. The musty smell of the mask over his face didn't help settle his stomach any.

Once Malone shut Murphy inside, he motioned for Connor to follow him to the bedroom, which he did. The closet doors in the bedroom were flat, wooden panels, but Malone told him that if their target opened them, he should surprise him with a bullet. Connor felt his heart plummet, but reminded himself why they were there.

"Evil men, dead men, right?" Connor whispered to Malone.

Malone took a few silent moments to contemplate the seriousness in Connor's proclamation. The fact that he was standing before a man he might have considered "evil" had been cloaked in a veil of his charm and intelligence, but he didn't underestimate Connor by any means. If he and his brother had it in them to even think about joining him on these particular jobs, it wouldn't take them long to strengthen their resolves to put anyone out of their misery they saw fit, to abolish any sense of remorse. He didn't wish to be under that wrathful gun if it were to turn on him. From this point forward, it was all about winning their trust.

"Absolutely, Connor," he confirmed, hiding his own malice. "Let's do what we came to do." After directing him to get into the closet, he shut him in, then ascended the main carpeted staircase to the second floor, where he crouched and hid behind a corner, loaded gun at the ready in case his pupils failed.

Approximately ten minutes after their arrival, the front door swung open, and all three of them heard it from their individual positions. The hall closet had become like a sauna since Murphy had climbed into it, and it only worsened his stomachache, as well as the lightheadedness that came with it. Though his eyes were fuzzy and blurred, he managed to lift his gun and point it at the door, holding it in place, listening to the footsteps of the man who had come into the house.

Murphy's hands tightened around his gun handle, his finger on the trigger, but he didn't pull it. His biceps began to tremble from holding it up, feeling much too weak for this sort of pressure. His stomach did a somersault when he saw the silhouette of the man saunter past the door he was hiding behind, until his slow steps came to a halt. He appeared cautious and worrisome, perhaps confused about the strange white van in his driveway.

Murphy's finger clenched the trigger, but loosened afterward. No matter how hard he tried to keep it down, bile threatened to sail up his windpipe, even after the many times he swallowed. The heat, the smell of the mask, and the pressure he was under all piled onto each other at once, and he lost control. He ripped the mask off of his face just in time to keel over and barf onto the floor, as well as onto himself, a dry heave and cough following.

The man standing in front of the closet gasped at the sounds he heard coming from it and took a step back. Knowing he had probably just ruined the entire operation, Murphy became desperate to make it right again, already feeling like a damn fool. He raised his gun, again in a hand that wouldn't stop shaking, and as their target continued to move away from the door and toward the living room where the telephone was, Murphy debated his next course of action.

Malone saw the way the events were now unfolding, and didn't want the man to use the phone or escape the house. He cocked the hammer of his gun back and waited for a clear shot. If he knew people well, and he believed he did, he would make a break for the back door in the kitchen if he didn't stop to use the phone. He could plug him on the way there no problem.

Before Malone could even aim at his target's head, he heard the closet door burst open. A crack of a bullet came next, and then the sound of gasping and choking. Murphy, who had surprised the already weary man, had shot him in the neck and sent him to the floor, grasping at his bullet wound, panting and gurgling. It didn't take long at all for life to drain away from him, and when it was over, Murphy dropped to his knees.

Malone was shocked at how things concluded, and he climbed out of his hiding spot and descended the stairs to check the deceased. He needed only to look at the man— thirty-four year-old Brandon Olsen, the employer his golden-aged client wished to have murdered—to determine his death. He knew a fatal wound when he saw it.

Impressed, he sauntered over to Murphy, pulling the mask from his own face, freeing his wrinkled eyes and gray strings of hair. "Nice, shot, Murphy," he complimented. Murphy didn't respond, only heaved and tried to collect himself. "What happened?"

"Puked," he slurred.

He rang with a series of delighted chuckles. "That's all right. I did that my first time, too." He holstered his gun and helped Murphy up, who stumbled as his knees buckled. "You're pretty pale. Go have a seat." Murphy nodded and dragged his feet over to the white sofa, where he collapsed. "Connor! Come on out, we're clear." He listened to the sound of the bedroom closet creak open and Connor's steps enter the room. The first thing Connor reacted to was the body on the floor, which he covered his mouth at. The second thing he did was tear the mask from his face. "Congratulate your brother, Connor. He did an amazing job."

Connor next looked at Murphy, who was near unconscious on the couch. "Murph? You okay?" His twin couldn't answer.

"He'll be fine. He and his hangover need to have a little quiet time. You and I are going to clean up while he gets some rest." He smacked Connor on the shoulder and guided him over to the hall closet where Murphy had been hiding, and passed him his satchel of cleaning supplies. "Sorry to have to do this, but as your brother is incapacitated, you're going to have to take care of it. Murphy vomited in the closet, and I need you to give the carpet a really good scrub-down with this." Connor nodded to him, taking the order and stepping into the closet with the tools given to him. "Get it _good_ now, okay? And do not, I repeat, _do not_ step in any of it. You step in any fluids, you leave tracks, and you might as well hang yourself now."

"Got it," Connor told him, curling his nose at the foul smell as he crouched in front of the closet to clean up his brother's mess. It wasn't the first time he had done it, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last.

Malone went out to the service van and opened the back doors, grabbing long sheets of plastic, then dragged them back inside the house, taking them over to the body he intended to wrap up, whistling an odd tune the entire time. The strange thing was that Connor recognized it. When Malone rolled the corpse onto the plastic and began wrapping and taping it at insane speeds, it became clear to Connor all at once just how often Malone might have done this. When he completed the wrapping process, he hauled the body over his shoulder and headed for the door, carrying on with his creepy, absentminded whistling. Connor, unsettled, continued on with wiping the carpet clean, until no traces of Murphy's puke remained.

Malone came back into the house, asked Connor to join him at the spot where he wrapped the body, and Connor obeyed. Malone took the cleaning materials from him, proceeding to show him how to clean the bloodstains.

"This here," he explicated while showing Connor the spray bottle, "Is ammonia. Do you know what ammonia is?" Connor shook his head. "Well, you don't need to. If you want to blot out blood in a hurry, it's what you use. It also helps clean it off of surfaces like this. Keep this in mind, all right? It's important."

Connor nodded. "I will."

"Keep some with you on any hit you go to. I can guarantee you will need it." Malone continued to mop the blood off of the floor, teaching Connor how. "Yes indeedy. Don't know where I'd be now if it weren't for the stuff. Probably not here teaching you about it, that's for sure." When they finished cleaning the blood off of the carpet and tile floor, Malone worked on the spatters on the walls. "Go check on your brother. I'll be done in a moment."

Connor left his side and hurried to Murphy's, kneeling next to him and removing his left glove to touch his face. It was damp and chilled. "You okay, Murph?" he whispered. Murphy cracked his right eye open to look at him.

"Wanna go home," he mumbled, a bead of sweat coursing down his nose.

"We're almost done. How bad is it?"

"Stomach still kind of hurts… mostly dizzy."

"I'll get ya home soon. I'm…" The first word he thought of using was "proud," but saying it didn't feel right. He was not proud at all about what they had done. "I'm impressed wit' ya. I t'ink I was too busy tryin' not to piss myself den I was ready to shoot someone."

Murphy found enough energy to smile at him, his eyes half-open. "Was a good shot, wasn't it?"

"Aye," Connor agreed, patting him on the shoulder. "Damn good." Malone called for him again, and he returned to him, inhaling the ripe, powerful scent of ammonia, covering his nose. "Is it s'pposed to smell like dat?"

"It smells awful," Malone confirmed. "You'll get used to it. The water added to the mix should kill the smell before anyone comes home. Now…" Malone planted his hands on his hips. "On to step two: disposal. This one is a bit more complicated. This isn't required every time. Sometimes, when doing a background check, I'll find someone's history to determine whether or not they have psychological disorders, or I'll scout for medications in the home. In those cases, I just make it look like suicide. It's easier that way. In this case, Mister Olsen here appeared normal to everyone else. So, we have to make it look like he skipped town. Getting the picture?"

"So far," Connor answered.

"Good." Malone beckoned him to follow, and he did as he led him to the front door. They peered out at the driveway through one of the windows. "You won't have to worry about paper trails. I'll be handling those. Because we want to make it look like he skipped town, we have to get his car out of here. Connor, I'm going to have you drive it somewhere. Don't worry, I'll give you directions. I have a few _friends_ in my pocket at a local junkyard who will gladly take it off my hands for parts."

"We can't… maybe…" Connor shrugged, hiding a growing smirk.

"Sell it?" His scowl caused Connor's grin to die off. "Don't be foolish, Connor. We might have time to dispose of a body, but we do not have time to find the title of the car and find someone to buy it, you getting me?" Connor, dismayed, gave him a weak nod. "Good. No, the car must be _disposed_ of, with no trace left. It must be as though he's vanished into thin air."

"M'sorry. Was just a suggestion."

"Let me do the thinking please," he advised. Connor sighed at being berated, but he understood why it had to be done. "Now. While you go to the junkyard, I'll be taking care of the dearly departed."

"How?"

"You'll find out eventually. For now, we'll take it a few baby steps at a time." He passed Connor a set of keys he retrieved from the pocket of now dead man. "I'll leave a note with you for the attendant telling him what I need done." Connor didn't have time to ask questions before he shooed him off and demanded he take Murphy along with him. Connor aided Murphy off of his comfortable seat and walked him toward the door as he leaned against him. "No speeding!" Malone called to Connor as they headed out. "There's no rush, gentlemen. We have plenty of time." Connor once again nodded, exiting the house and opening Mister Olsen's car and setting Murphy in the passenger seat. Malone then gave him directions to the junkyard, and told him he would meet them there when he was finished.

Murphy begged Connor to turn the air conditioner on as they drove, and he did, but it still felt like he was boiling in a pot. "Fuckin' hate summer," he griped during the ride there. Connor found it difficult to believe that he wanted to discuss the weather after what they had just done. "Connor," he sighed, fidgeting about in his seat. "When ya shot dat Italian guy…"

"His name was Tony."

"Aye… Tony… did it feel… good?"

Since Connor had killed Tony Abbiati, Murphy didn't seem too interested to know the facts. He had been there, witnessed it, and didn't think he needed to know anything more. Connor was a bit exasperated that he chose now of all times to pick his brain.

"Ya mean as I did it? Or after?"

"When ya did it. When ya pulled de trigger."

"I…" At the time, he hadn't thought much on it, but now when faced with that personal reflection, he could form an opinion. "When I pulled it… I… yeh. It felt good. He was hurtin' ya, and…"

"Really? When I was in dere… in dat closet… I didn't t'ink I'd be able to do it, and then… when I knew I had to, I was ready, ya know? And when I finally did it, it felt… _great_."

"Did it?"

"Aye…" Murphy gazed at his brother with concern, thinking he might assume he was a maniacal psychopath, but a smile grew on his tired face.

"I have to admit… it does feel good dat a scumbag like dat is gone. Even feel good about ya doin' it." They both chuckled with relief, though it hurt Murphy's stomach to do so. "Maybe dis won't be so bad."

"I'm already set fer de next one. I can't wait. I feel like we were _born_ fer dis, Connor."

"Aye," he agreed. "Meh too."

"Maybe we'll start cappin' really important criminals, like de Mafia. Be on de news, and shit. People'd be talkin' about us."

They both laughed at the ridiculous thought. "Don' get ahead o'yerself. We have to be careful."

"I know, I know. I've jus' never felt dis good about some'tin' before." When Connor frowned at this assertion, he stammered, "Well, ya know… uh… except…"

"It's all 'ight, Murph. I know what ya mean."

Connor shut the car off after pulling up to the door of the garage, and climbed out with Murphy, who had a bit more color to his face by now. After buzzing the intercom, they waited a few moments before a small door off to the side swayed open and a gruff, raggedy man with spots, a grizzly salt and pepper beard and a beer gut stepped outside. His blue name tag was embroidered with the name "Phil". He looked upon the two strapping, young Irish lads in black, thumbed his chin, and said:

"So. What'd I win?"

Connor and Murphy, puzzled, exchanged cursory glances before turning their eyes back to him. Connor spoke first. "We were sent here by Malone. He wants dis car disposed of. He left a note wit' us." He reached into pocket, pulled out the crumpled note, then handed it to the attendant, who scanned it thoroughly.

"Aw, hell," grumbled the scratchy-voiced older man. "Eric. He got me all excited. Thought you leprechauns were gonna give me somethin'."

"Ya wanna pot o'gold?" Murphy joked.

"Well, it'd be nice."

"Leprechauns don' share dere fortune… or dere cereal," Connor informed, and Murphy cackled.

Phil looked up at the sky, which had a cover of storm clouds. "Come on in while you wait for Eric." They followed him inside of the garage, and Murphy gagged at the reeking scent of oil. Thankfully, it wasn't as strong inside of the office where he brought them.

"Mind if we smoke?" asked Murphy. Phil waved his hand to him indicating to please do so. In one simultaneous motion, they ripped packs of cigarettes from their pockets and each lit one in the same fashion, like choreographed dancers in a show choir.

"You two brothers?" interrogated Phil, noticing their similarities.

"Aye," they said in sync.

"Fraternal twins," clarified Murphy, speaking over a low rumble of incoming thunder.

"Twins," repeated Phil, rubbing at the base of his beard. "What are your names?"

"Connor."

"Murphy."

Phil tossed a scoff to the wind and a spit into the garbage. "You're twins and your names don't rhyme?"

"Is dat, like… a rule?" Connor wondered.

"Not exactly. But it helps."

Neither of them got the chance to ask what exactly it would "help" before they heard someone enter the garage. Malone, drenched with his hair stuck to his face, joined them in the office, recoiling at the smell of cigarettes.

"Boys," he acknowledged, and they waved to him. "You got here in one piece. Good job. Keys." Connor tossed Malone the keys to Mister Olsen's car. "Phil. I'm going to clean out the glove compartment and trunk, then she's all yours."

"Shame," lamented Phil, shaking his head. "Looks like a damn nice car, too."

"_Was._" Malone left the three of them to dig out the man's belongings from the car while Connor and Murphy finished their cigarettes. By the time he came back, the rainfall had picked up, as did the thunder. Malone pulled a leather wallet from his pocket and slipped a thick wad of cash from the sleeve, passing it to Phil, who took it with an eerie, satisfied smirk.

"Pleasure to serve you, detective," he sang with appreciation. "Hope to see you again soon. You, too, leprechauns." They waved to him before getting out of their seats and following Malone out, grateful to be away from the guy. After tossing their finished cigarettes onto the soaked mud, they climbed into the van along with Malone, who swiped back his dripping hair.

"We got this one done pretty quickly," Malone told them with admiration. "It was a fairly clean job, no struggles. Aside from Murphy's mishap, it was a job well done." Murphy's face burned. "Speaking of which—how you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good. You getting drunk the day before work is to be done will not happen again… correct?"

Murphy dragged a hand over his mouth. "Aye…"

"Glad to hear it."

Malone first drove the twins back to their apartment to drop them off. He bid them a good evening and told them he'd be contacting them again within the next few days for payment and possibly another job. Murphy thanked him, but Connor wasn't sure what to say, so he shook his hand instead.

As they returned to their loft, it was as if nothing happened, and the day could go on as usual. It was as though Murphy had not shot a man just a few hours ago, or that Connor was watching a man in his sixties clean up bloodstains. Murphy turned in for sleep right away, but Connor wished he hadn't. He wanted someone to talk to, to help calm him down.

The night would be long for Connor, not only because he had the occasional nightmare, but because he thought he heard Murphy chuckling in his sleep. He wouldn't tell him about it the following day, but he wouldn't deny that it chilled him.


	3. Chapter 3

The afternoon was brisk, however humid, but it seemed right enough for when Connor and Murphy walked around town. Murphy was far more energetic than he had been the day before, having vanquished his hangover by that point. They made small pit stops on their hike, including at a hot dog stand where they bought a quick lunch. They both agreed after taking a few bites that it didn't taste right, and then ended up chucking it toward a hoard of flocking seagulls, which fought beak and claw over it.

"Dat's pro'lly where de meat comes from in de first place," Murphy observed, pointing to the rats with wings. Connor knew he was kidding, but couldn't help but take him seriously. It didn't sound too far-fetched.

They got to chatting, rather casually, about their hit the day before. Connor seemed relieved that Mister Olsen died quickly, despite him believing he deserved worse, and Murphy got to mentioning methods of dying, and which he'd prefer, or rather, which ones he didn't.

"Drownin'," he told Connor. "Jus' dat terrifyin' feeling of knowin' yer not gonna make it to de surface in time." He shivered, holding his coat tighter around himself. "Dat'd be a horrible way to go. Especially if yer out in de middle of de ocean, waitin' to die."

"Aye," Connor breathed, also closing his coat.

"What about you?"

"I dunno if I wanna talk about it."

"Why not?"

"Even de t'ought scares me."

Murphy placed a hand on his back. "Come on, tell meh. I'm curious."

He didn't understand Murphy's fascination. They didn't normally talk about such dark things with each other. Perhaps, he assumed, he thought now would be the best time, seeing as how they'd be faced with it a lot. "Worst would be burnin'," he told him. "Alive. I can't even burn my tongue wit'out cryin'." Murphy nodded at the truth of this statement. "Second worst… torture. Death is scary enough, but someone makin' ya _wish_ ya were dead, and not deliverin' de promise until you've suffered—"

"Yer right," Murphy interrupted. "Let's stop talkin' about dis."

Connor didn't have a problem dropping it. They headed back for the alley in which they lived, tossing their coats onto the couch where more of their junk was stored. Connor ransacked the fridge for beer, and Murphy sat down at the new table they had purchased for themselves after Murphy had broken the first one. He found a pack of gum next to the ashtray, inserted a strip into his mouth and chewed.

"Ya wanna maybe…" Murphy started.

Fearing that he was going to ask for sex, Connor tensed up. "What…?"

"See a movie? Tonight?"

Baffled, he laughed out, "A _movie?_ Ya hate movies."

"I don' hate movies! I jus' hate de ones ya like." He shrugged, smacking on his gum. "But I'd be willin' to see whatever ya wanted."

Knowing this was Murphy's awkward way of asking him out, he had a hard time letting him down. "Maybe some o'ter time. I don' really feel like goin' out."

Murphy was confused that he had turned the offer away. He thought Connor had been waiting forever for him to join him at the cinema. He sure made it seem that way. "We could rent one."

"We don' even have a VCR. Or one of dose DVD players." Murphy gaped at him for a few silent moments, then dropped his head.

He sighed, chewing a bit louder, his jaw popping. "Yer right. Sorry."

A ring of the phone ended their conversation, much to Connor's relief. He barely got a salutation out before Malone cut him off. "I'm coming to get you both. I have something to show you."

Connor both wanted and didn't want to know what that was. "All 'ight."

"You won't need anything. This is more of an educational trip. I'll be there in roughly twelve minutes. Keep your pants on." Even though Malone couldn't see it over the phone, Connor rolled his eyes at him.

"We'll be ready," he said.

"Good. See you soon." Without another word, he hung up.

As promised, Malone showed up no later than twelve minutes following his phone call, and both brothers were already prepared for whatever he had in store for them. Murphy didn't care whether or not Malone claimed they wouldn't need guns—he still brought his along. Connor voted against such an idea, only for him to suggest he take his, too.

Malone had brought his own car this time, which Connor had to admit was a non-threatening sign. Their journey began in a direction they were familiar with— toward the Boston Harbor, where they disposed of Tony Abbiati. As for conversation, there wasn't much to be had until they reached the docks, where he led them to a series of personal fishing boats. The one he eventually climbed aboard was a small motor yacht, which they were in awe of as they hopped on deck.

As Malone unlocked the cabin doors, he said at last, "Gentlemen, welcome to the _Damocles_." Speechless, they followed him into the well-furnished cabin, a luxurious, spacious living space, complete with a galley, bedroom and bathroom. What stood out most to them was the lounging area with couches and a mini bar.

"Holy shit," they both gasped.

"I take from your distended mouths and huge eyes that you're impressed with it."

"I wish I lived here," Murphy expressed with envy.

"Aye," squeaked Connor.

Smiling, Malone crossed the cabin to the kitchen. "Drinks?" They answered with enthusiastic approval. He opened a refrigerator door, reaching inside, knocking bottles around. "I'm afraid I only have wine at the moment, but I get the feeling you two will drink anything." They didn't deny it. After pouring them each a glass, he passed one to each of them, toasting with them.

"_Veritas_," Connor said to Murphy, knocking his glass into the one in his brother's hand.

"_Aequitas_," Murphy replied, and they each finished what was in their glass in one gulp.

"Truth and justice?" Malone asked, curious.

"Aye," confirmed Murphy. "Didn't figure ya fer a Latin speaker."

"I'm not. I just know those words. Why did you say them?"

"We've always said dem."

"They must mean _something_ to you."

Connor opined, "It's jus' a really badass t'ing to say."

Malone's laugh was rickety, but sinister. Connor didn't think he could ever get used to it. "It is. But I think it's interesting that _truth_ is the very reason you're standing on this yacht with me. I think if it weren't for your honesty, you'd be in a very different position now." Connor had never thought of it that way before. Of course he always believed in doing the right thing, always put his faith in fairness, but he never made the connection. "_Truth_, Connor, is a word that well defines you." He poured the wine down his throat before taking their glasses.

"Now…" Malone continued. "Before I forget…" He left the brothers anxious with anticipation while he opened a bottom cupboard and reached inside. Murphy placed a cautious hand on the gun handle underneath the tail of his shirt while taking an idle step in front of Connor, whose guard wasn't as high as his brother's. Malone didn't remove a weapon from the cupboard however, but a black leather pouch, which he set upon the counter and unzipped.

"I believe you boys are owed your payment." He pulled two wads of dollars bills from the bag and with each outstretched hand, passed the cash to them. Murphy took one roll, while Connor obtained the other, and they counted the sum. "One thousand. Half of what I'm paid. Don't spend it all in one place." He eyed Murphy, a wicked smirk spreading over his teeth. "Like the bar."

"I won't let 'im," Connor swore, sticking the dollars into the pocket of his black coat.

"I have something else for you." He put the pouch back into the cupboard where he got it from, and took something else out of it: two wrapped boxes of equal size, each with white bows on top. "Sort of a… welcoming gift for joining the little club."

Murphy placed a hand on Connor's shoulder, a gesture asking him to wait before opening it. With a perplexed curl of the nose, he stared at Murphy while he ripped the paper off of his own box. Malone, tickled by Murphy's paranoia, grinned while leaning against the counter and watched him with fascination as he carefully tipped the top of the box up, peeking inside of it. Connor figured it was safe when Murphy's worried squints formed into pleased surprise, and tore the paper off of his own gift.

Taking the top of the box off, Connor was granted with a most unexpected display: a wooden, beaded rosary, centered with a circle of silver. When he pulled the rosary from the box, he felt a disoriented sense of concurrent appreciation and queasiness. Malone, having seen them go to, even had taken them to church, understood the importance of their Catholic faith, and yet, he wondered what it was he was trying to tell them with such a compelling gift. It felt almost like a slap in the face, or perhaps a way of saying "this is the last remaining remnant of your loyalty to God— you're sinners now, whether you like it or not." With that message haunting him, Connor wondered whether or not he'd even be able to wear it with loyalty, for he was indeed a sinner—the worst kind there was. "Thou shalt not kill" was no longer a commandment he followed, no matter how black the blood was that he spilled.

Murphy slipped the rosary over his neck right away, admiring it, even clutching it in his palm. Connor, on the other hand, hesitated, as though he'd be struck down by a holy hand upon putting it on himself. It shook his soul to think how much he betrayed the Lord he so devotedly followed, and bothered him even more to know that Malone made it so obvious that he had. He wanted to bring them down to his level, and this was the way to do it. Connor felt manipulated, and had no civil way of addressing it.

"Problem, Connor?" wondered Malone, who was still leaning over the kitchen counter.

"I… no. It's beautiful. T'anks."

"Put it on."

"I… I will later." He didn't like where this confrontation was going. He already knew that the things he did were bad. Being reminded of such only further ripped open a scar that was still busy healing.

"Your brother knows how to accept a gift," he sneered.

"Okay, okay," he eased, wrapping the beads around his neck. _There, you happy now?_

Pleased with this development, Malone took the boxes and paper from them. "They look good on you."

"Aye," agreed Murphy, swaying his chest so the beads would rattle. "Suits us. Guess yer not such a bad feller after all."

"Oh, I'm definitely a bad fellow, Murphy. But I can at least see where we have common ground." He waved to them, asking them to follow, and they did, outside to the upper deck. "Do you boys enjoy sailing?"

Connor answered first. "It's all 'ight I gue—"

"_No,_" Murphy interjected, then dipped his head when they both looked at him.

"Not a fan, Murphy?" Malone prodded, now with lightheartedness.

"Seasickness," he fibbed. "Waves… dey… make meh queasy."

Malone continued up to the pilot house, which was a small, comfortable space with a couch and leather chair, giving the wooden helm a pat. "Took me a long time to learn how to sail, but now I can master it about as well as I can kill." He took a seat in the chair, then pointed to the seats behind him. "Go ahead and relax. We're going to take a little trip."

Murphy smacked his hand on Connor's forearm and squeezed it, digging his bitten nails into it. "Ow," he hissed at him.

"Sorry," Murphy whispered, but continued to clench.

"I'll turn some music on," Malone told Murphy especially. "That should help."

The darker-haired twin wasn't convinced. "Where're we goin'?"

"To the bay."

"Why?"

Chuckling, Malone started flipping switches on the control panel. "There's something else you two need to see."

"_Connor. I don' like dis._"

Wincing at the eye-watering sting of Murphy's claws in his arm, Connor tried to loosen his fingers. "We'll…" He grunted as he pried each individual finger from him. "Be… okay. _Murph, let me go, dat fuckin' hurts!_"

Murphy unshackled his grip from Connor's arm, only to tuck a hand around his bicep as the small yacht got moving. Connor tried to calm him down with strokes to the back, but the sweat that had collected on his forehead told him nothing would really do the trick.

It took Malone about thirty minutes to sail to his destination, an area in the Massachusetts Bay that was far from civilization. All there was to see for miles was the sparkling ocean, and Malone stopped the boat right in the middle of nowhere. Murphy couldn't stop his shaking, or sweating for that matter, and though Connor thought his fear justified, didn't want him panicking this much. When Murphy lost it, it was a tougher thing to contain than a sprinting rabbit.

"Come on out and smell the ocean, boys," he advised, heading out to the main deck.

Connor glanced at Murphy, who didn't release his arm for the entire ride there. "Ya stayin' here?"

Murphy was no more interested in looking at the miles of vast water than he was with spending any quality time with their cohort, but he wanted to be there in case he tried to shove his brother into the water for whatever reason. "No. I'll come wit' ya." Connor patted his shoulder, standing up and leading Murphy out to the deck as he clung to him like a child on his first day of school.

When their eyes met the flash of sunlight, the streaks of glistening white on the surface of the water, and Malone, who stood with pride by the edge of his boat, they shielded their view with their hands as the horizon blinded them.

In the distance echoed a high-pitched croon of a whale. Murphy turned in the direction of it. "De fuck was dat?"

"Just a whale," Malone said, nonchalant, accustomed to seeing and hearing them by now.

Murphy inched closer to Connor, nearly throwing him off balance. Whatever lived in the sea, Murphy didn't want to get face-to-face with it. The world was frightening enough on land.

"What's out here dat ya wanted to show us?" asked Connor, who saw nothing but water around them.

"I can't really show you up close. But I can give you a demonstration." Malone opened a crate, one loaded with piles of crushed ice, which he brushed aside to get to a large garbage bag. As soon as it was free from the box, the brothers covered their mouths and noses. "Yes, I know, it's not the most pleasant smell," he said without needing to look at them. "It won't be in our possession long." He raised the bag into the air, presenting it to them. "I don't need to show you what's in here, do I?" They shook their heads, their curiosity killed by upset stomachs. "This isn't the entire thing. It's one particular part. Can you guess which one?"

"Not… _dat,_" Connor said with horror.

Malone flinched, curling his lip. "Oh _God_ no. What do you think I am, some kind of sadist?" He snorted. "No. It's the head." He didn't give them a chance to ask why. "It's because this is the only part that can't be eaten by hogs."

The bobbing of the waves and rocking and creaking of the boat was the only sound for about half of a minute. Malone waited for them to process what he just told them.

Connor burst out laughing first. Then Murphy was the next one to. "_Hogs,_" he repeated. "Yer funneh. Yer fuckin' funneh."

"Hogs, he fuckin' says," giggled Murphy. "He almost got us dere."

"He did, he did." He wagged his finger at Malone. "Yer good. Dat's a good one."

When they saw that Malone hadn't joined them on their jollity, they drifted into stunned silence. Malone, saying nothing more to them, smiled on the corner of his mouth, dropping the weighted bag into the water. Revolted at the implications, the twins took one look at each other before turning toward the gunwale and bending over it.

"Circle of Life, gentlemen," Malone educated, leaving the side of the boat after dumping his "trash" there. "Get it out of your system now. You'll get used to it in time."

"He's not serious," Connor tried to tell himself. "He can't be."

"What a _freak,_" Murphy said, spitting into the water.

"He's fuckin' wit' us. He doesn't feed de bodies to fuckin' _hogs._ Who does dat?"

"I've heard of stranger t'ings." Another whale song pierced the air, and Murphy once again clasped onto Connor's arm. "Let's go back in."

"Aye," agreed Connor once his stomach calmed itself. With their arrival, Malone started the motors.

"Do something enough times," he began while turning the boat around. "And it becomes second nature. Eventually it matters little to you. It becomes you."

Following a slight cough, Connor responded. "You can t'row bodies to hogs all ya want. Ya'll never get us to. I may not be as saintly as I used to be… but I won't disrespect de dead."

Despite being somewhat disappointed at his challenge, Malone was glad to hear him open up to him. "Fair enough, Connor. What would _you_ do to them?"

"I dunno. I wouldn't feed dem to pigs."

"Me nei'ter," Murphy chimed in.

"Dey deserve _some_ respect, even if dey did some'tin' bad in life."

Malone nodded, steering the helm as they spoke to him. "Noble. But impractical. There is not time to dig a grave for every single hit we make, and it would make the body too easy to find. A body that is eaten is a body no more. You can't find something that isn't there."

"I realize dat," Connor argued. "But can't we… maybe… do some'tin' for dem before ya take dem away?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"I dunno. A ritual. Some'tin'. Any'tin' really."

Malone scratched the hair on his chin. "I don't see the harm in it, if it'll make you guys comfortable."

"Really?"

"Sure. You're in this, too. I may do all of the planning, but if something affects you, I'd like to know."

"Oh…" Connor didn't expect such empathy from him. He thought that by this point in Malone's life, he was vacant of any traces of it. "All 'ight. T'anks."

"When you come up with something, run it by me. Then we'll discuss it some more."

A bit more comfortable now, Connor relaxed. The same couldn't be said for Murphy, who still felt tense the entire time they were on the water. He would kiss the road he walked upon when they got back. He would crawl into bed and never climb out of it.

Malone dropped the twins off at their apartment, telling them he would see them before long, and would call when he received a new client. They didn't wish to discuss or think about murder for the rest of the night—just wanted to have a normal evening with normal conversation, with cigarettes and beer and anything that drinking it led to.

Unfortunately, neither of them felt very "normal."


	4. Chapter 4

In the afternoon that followed, Connor could distinguish from the sunlight outside that it was mid-day. He hadn't intended to sleep in that much, but he felt exhausted from the lack of sleep he had been getting the past few days. Another thing he became aware of upon waking was that Murphy was gone.

"Murph?" he called, though he already knew the room was empty. Kicking the sheets off of his legs, he jumped to his feet and pulled on some clothes, ones that were most certainly dirty, but he wasn't looking to attract anyone. First, he went downstairs and outside to check the alley, but couldn't find him. He called to him a few times, but his brother never responded.

With Murphy gone, Connor wasn't sure how to react. They were almost never apart, for any reason. If he left the apartment without him, he must have had a desperate need to get away, and that meant several things. One possibility was that being around Connor stressed him out now, though he wasn't sure why that could be. The last time Murphy "ran away" was because he teased him for thinking sheep were "cute." Of course, they were children at the time, but Connor never got over how hurt Murphy was when he called him derogatory names. In all fairness, Connor didn't think Murphy would get so upset. At the time, he thought it was hilarious, but when he saw him bawling, he felt terrible for making him cry. He'd take it back if he could, over any killing he had done. He'd go back to his childhood self and tell Murphy that he agreed with him; sheep _were_ cute, _damn_ cute, and that one day they'd own a whole flock of them, and they'd watch them run and bleat and shit all afternoon. Compared to how they were living now, it sounded like paradise.

As he walked down the street, he tried to think of what he might have said to Murphy the night before that could have upset him, the way he called him a "fag" when he commented on the adorable faces of their cottony domesticated beasts. The memory, as it continued to spring up, made Connor utter quiet curses as he followed the streets toward the first place he thought Murphy might have gone to. He supposed in retrospect, it had been his fault all along that Murphy was so emotionally closed off from him. Being called names by him was all too crushing, he was sure. Sometimes he couldn't help but tease him. The looks on his face were worth it.

_I can't even remember what I did or said, and I already feel like a shit head,_ he thought.

Murphy might have had more personal reasons for disappearing on him, Connor considered. He was a hothead at times, quicker to react with rage than his brother was, but he was also more locked up and shut in. There were many times that Connor could sense pain in his twin, and never did he find out what exactly was causing it. He'd always tell him he was "fine," and Connor never bought it, but no matter what he did, he couldn't get information out of him. He supposed that was also his fault, but it was too late to change it. Murphy was who he was, and he was sure he had a large part in how he turned out when they didn't have a father around as a figure of authority.

Connor could hear the boisterous voice of the priest within the church as he approached the massive double doors. He recognized the voice of one Father Samuel Richardson, a man he had come to admire on the many times they attended the Sunday Mass. It had been a while since they had gone, but if Murphy was anywhere, it was either church, McGinty's, or Rocco's, and Rocco didn't usually wake up this "early" on a Sunday, and he had his doubts that Murphy would be drinking so soon. Cracking the door open, he peeked inside, and the priest smiled at the sight of him, knowing his face. As he continued speaking, he waved Connor inside. Connor, waving an apology to some of the people who turned toward the door to see what the disturbance was, walked down the center isle searching for his twin.

"_Connor,_" whispered a familiar voice. Connor spun toward it, and spotted Murphy, sitting on the end of a pew in the middle of the room. Scooting past many of the patrons on their seats, mumbling "sorry" to them, he squeezed into a seat next to his brother, who smiled when their eyes met. "_Ya like bein' fashionably late, doncha?_"

Connor leaned back and placed his hands in his lap, hooking his fingers together. "_Well, if one is to be late, might as well do it in style._"

"_Aye. I can see yer very stylish dis afternoon._" He nodded toward Connor's shirt, which had a questionable stain on the front of it that both of them knew couldn't possibly be food or drink.

"_I rushed outta de house t'inkin' some'tin' was wrong wit' ya. I had to t'row on whatever I could find._"

"_Sorry I didn't wake ya. Ya looked like ya needed de sleep._"

"_I did._" Glancing over at Murphy's neck, he saw the rosary from Malone around it. Not wanting to disturb the other visitors, he leaned closer to Murphy's ear. "_Ya feel okay wearin' dat?_"

Murphy twirled his finger around the beads of the rosary. "_Why wouldn't I?_"

"_When he gave dem to us… I dunno, it made me feel… _weird."

"_It's not dat I like de fact he gave dem to us. I t'ought it was weird, too. I jus' remember ma havin' one like dem._"

Whenever Murphy brought up their mother, he could tell how homesick he was. In truth, he also missed their mother, missed their home. "_She said da used to wear one, too._"

At any mention of their father, Murphy's demeanor became colder, and this instance was no different. "Yeh, well." Nothing more would be said on the subject.

Connor didn't bring it up any further, wanting to keep Murphy in a positive mood. "_Let's get some lunch at O'Malley's after dis._"

"_Ya sure ya wanna go out?_"

Knowing he was referring to the other day when he didn't want to go to the movies with him, he wondered what else was going on in Murphy's mind that he wasn't acknowledging. "_Course._"

"If ya say so."

Concluding the Mass, the crowd of people dispersed, leaving through the front doors. Connor and Murphy were the last to exit, lighting up cigarettes preceding their trek toward town. Though the street was alive with the roar of voices and movement that day, they were both perfectly content in silence with one another, walking and smoking at the same pace.

They weren't put off by the busyness of the diner, but rather the constant noise. When they were asked what they wished to order, they could barely hear the waitress who spoke to them. Without bothering to look at the menus, they told her the same thing they told every server each time they went there.

Connor: "Shepherd's pie."

Murphy: "Boxty."

Both, as always, ordered drafts for beverages. As soon as the waitress had gone, Connor scoffed.

"She seem a little distracted to ya?"

"Can't blame her. It's busier n'usual."

"Aye, everyone from church came here." He tossed a judging nose into the air. "Was hopin' to have a quiet meal wit' ya, but I'll take what I can get." When he next looked at Murphy, his eyes were moving around the room as he bit at one of his nails. "What's de matter?" He shrugged. "Murph… don' do dat. Jus' tell me."

"Dis isn't a good place fer it."

"I doubt anyone can hear ya in dis noise."

Dropping both of his hands to the tiled table surface, as well as his sinking head, he let out a broken sigh. "I know ya told meh you were okay wit' meh killin' dat guy…" He scratched at a non-existent itch behind his ear. "But I see de way ya look at meh sometimes."

"What… _what_ way?"

"Like yer…" He chewed on his bottom lip, never settling his eyes on his brother's face. "Disgusted wit' meh."

"_What?_" Connor laughed.

"Don' fuckin' _laugh!_ Ya t'ink I'm fuckin' around?"

"Murph… calm down." He swiveled his head, looking to see if anyone was paying attention to them. "First of all… I do _not_ do dat. Second, where de fuck is _dis_ comin' from?"

"Fine, fuckin' deny it. All I know is dat I can tell whenever ya look at meh. Like ya t'ink I'm no better den dat fuckin' sicko I shot."

"I… I don' t'ink dat at all …" They held their tongues when the waitress came back with their beers. Murphy took a sip from his to prevent going off on Connor again, attempting to calm the atmosphere. "I told ya no'tin' would change. Dey haven't, have dey?"

"A little." He stamped his full glass down onto a coaster, making Connor wince. "I…" Clenching his fingers around his glass, it squeaked as he dragged his thumbs over the moistened, dewy surface. "Last night, ya…"

Connor knew exactly what he was referring to. Before turning in for the evening, Murphy tried his damnedest to start an intimate encounter with him, kissing on his neck and rubbing his shoulders. Connor was not only too tired, but he found it difficult to even think about sex. He tried to explain to him that it wasn't his fault, but Murphy was as interested in talking as he was in making love to him. "I'm sorry about dat. I jus' wasn't feelin' into it."

"And ya didn't wanna go out wit' meh. You've been beggin' meh and beggin' meh to see a movie wit' ya…"

"Murph, fer fuck's sake! Do we have to be chained toge'ter all de time?! Sometimes I want…" He lowered his voice when Murphy's head bowed even further. "Personal… time."

Plucking at strands of his hair, Murphy argued, "Ya _never_ wanted personal time before dis whole… t'ing we started. Ya always wanted to be wit' meh."

"I still do! I'm here about to eat lunch wit' ya, aren't I?!" Murphy didn't have an answer for that one. "It's only been a couple o'days. Don' I get a little… leeway?" At this question, his brother could only push his face into his damp palm. Connor hated when he did that. It was the first sign that he had crossed a line Murphy had drawn. The last thing he wanted was for Murphy to snap, and was even less prepared for him for him to do so in public. "M'sorry. It's not because I don' love ya. I do. A lot."

Murphy accepted his apology, and his humility, and his rage dimmed. "I'm afraid, Connor. Afraid dat… killin's gonna be our whole life. As excited I am at doin' it, I dunno if I could live like dat."

"Give it more time." He slid his upturned palm across the surface of the table toward Murphy, who, for a moment, only stared at it. Connor smiled when he set his palm into it, and each hand clenched around the other tight enough to feel each other's pulses. "It's not all about killin', and I doubt it will be. We're still us."

Their hands slackened when their waitress returned with their meals, and they fell into concentrated silence while they ate. After a few bites of his food, Connor remarked on it. "S'better den it usually is," he sang with a nod. "Dey must have got a new cook in. Wanna try it?"

Murphy pulled his head back, grimacing. "S'got lamb in it."

Connor dropped his gaze to his plate. "Oh, aye. Course." He grinned. "More fer meh."

Across from Malone sat a middle-aged man, tan hair, hooked, bird-like nose and brown eyes, and he couldn't bring himself to even say the words that brought him to the meeting in the first place. From the way he spoke about his business partner, a man he despised on many levels, Malone already knew he wanted him dead just by the direction the conversation was going.

Jerald Bernshaw, his newest client, had invited Malone to the food court at the mall, stressing that he'd feel more comfortable in public. This wasn't a stipulation Malone had an issue with, since almost every client asked this of him.

"I… I know you perform this… _service,_" began Jerald, which Malone responded to by looking at his silver watch. Catching the hint, Jerald then spouted, "I heard from Fiona. Fiona Bastian?" Malone nodded to show he recognized the name. She, like Tony's wife, wanted her husband dead. "That you… for a fee, I mean… will eliminate… certain…"

"You want to pay me to whack the guy."

"Yes," sighed Jerald, waving his hand to offer his thanks while Malone took a sip of his coffee.

"Don't be shy, Mister Bernshaw. I've heard it thousands of times. I'll likely hear it thousands more."

"I'm sorry. This is sort of new to me. I've never done this before."

"I hear that one a lot, too. Don't worry so much. If you're not already aware, it's five grand."

"Five grand?" repeated Jerald, who went over his decision with care before answering. "That's not too bad. I could afford it, but… how good are you? I mean, am I at risk of getting into trouble?"

Taking another long sip of coffee, which he preferred to be mixed with extra cream and sugar, Malone said in his deep, smooth tone, "Always. There is always a risk. That's a risk you'd have to be willing to take. Are you prepared for that?"

His client's uneasy shifting told him that he wasn't, but he nodded. "I think so."

As he always did when a client confirmed their interest in hiring him, he smirked. "May I ask why you'd like him dead?"

"I want the business for myself, but he refuses to let me buy him out. Our company is worth a lot and I'd like to sell it, but he won't allow it."

"Money," sighed Malone, melancholy. "Thought this was going to be an interesting one. You disappointed me."

Puzzled, Jerald whispered, "I'm sorry?"

"Don't worry. I'll get it done for you. It's just always the same reasons. Revenge or money." Shaking his head, Malone finished the remainder of his coffee, cursing his age. If it weren't for Connor and Murphy coming along, he might just quit altogether. They had a way of keeping things fresh for him. "I'll give you the details on where to wire the money— two grand at the start before I start tracking the person. Three grand when I show you proof of completion. Include details of your target with your initial payment."

"You got it," answered a now excited Jerald, who shook Malone's hand.

Now grateful that he could continue on with the rest of his day, Malone left him with details as well as his card, then left the mall. It was evening by the time he rolled out, and he had to make a trip back home before returning to the station. First, he would pay his companions a visit.

No matter how many times he parked near that alley where Connor and Murphy lived, he never felt the comfort of leaving his vehicle parked and unattended. One day he'd come back outside to find it stripped or stolen, and that was a best case scenario. The alarm system would only provide a few minutes of extra security.

By now, Malone had known the brothers' schedule and shift, and knew when a good time was to stop by without having to call. When the lift reached their floor, he heard the vociferous blasting of FM radio, songs Malone couldn't imagine ever enjoying, even in his youth. It was the same old nineties alternative rock, just like every other song that always played from morning until night, none of which were unique or carried any worth or substance. He hated the sound of a wailing electric guitar; hated it even more when the scratchy voice of a screaming twenty-something male was partnered with it. Regardless, he heard what sounded like Connor singing along with it, smelled the vile aroma of burning tobacco.

Knocking wasn't necessary, but he did so anyway. Connor was the one who answered, and he greeted him with a look of surprise. He was shirtless, but much to Malone's relief, managed to find his jeans before answering the door.

"What's up?" Connor asked, not intending to sound so immature when saying it.

"I'm going to be returning to work in about thirty minutes," Malone informed as Connor allowed him inside. Murphy was lying on the west bed, on his back, hands tucked under his head. Thankfully, he too was decent enough to have clothes on. "I was wondering if you'd both like to come to the house."

Connor didn't need to know the reasons, but Murphy did. "Why?"

Malone could kill a hundred men with his bare hands and not express a single emotion, but when asked a simple question involving his interest in inviting someone to his home, he found that harder to do than taking a life. Even he didn't understand why he wanted the company. All he knew was that he did. "I'm sure you'd be interested in my vast gun collection." The brothers' ears perked. "That is, if you're looking to trade in those pussy nine mils you've got."

Murphy would have objected going anywhere near Malone's home, but at the sound of these words, he was ecstatic, even hopped up to his feet. "Fuck. What kind do ya have?"

A weary smile bloomed on Malone's worn, weary face, his every wrinkle lifting at the seams. "I have a very wide range of weapons, Murphy. You boys can come check them out if you wish."

Murphy looked to Connor with eyes lit up like Christmas lights, and Connor couldn't reject that childlike excitement. Connor slapped a hand on Murphy's shoulder and nodded to Malone. "Sure. Let's check dem out."

Connor and Murphy expected many things when imagining Eric Malone's house, but never did they conceive just how massive it would be. The most interesting thing about it, in Connor's opinion, was how isolated it was from the rest of the world. Just to reach the driveway, they had to travel down a winding forest road that cut through a thicket of trees.

The house, which was modern in design, silver and black, and two stories in height, already had the MacManus brothers speechless, but when Malone guided them inside past the glass paneled front doors, they turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees to get the whole house in their view. Windows as tall as people gave off the perfect showcase of the sunset, which stretched along the Persian rugs and leather furniture. Paintings from various artists sat high on the stone and brick walls, and a fireplace centered the awesome display.

"It's… q-quite de place," chirped Connor in a cracking voice. Murphy was too stunned to even speak. He had never seen a place this fancy in his whole life.

"My particular business practices have their benefits," Malone told them with pride. "Keep at it long enough and you could live in a place like this."

"I t'ink it'd be a little too big fer us."

"We'd fill it," Murphy opposed to Connor.

"With _what?_"

"S… tuff."

"Drink?" offered Malone. They agreed to one. "You're in luck. I happen to have Irish whiskey." Their faces brightened. Despite the shell of ice that had managed to form over his heart over the many long years Malone had lived, it warmed somewhat at their approval. He felt, for the first time since meeting them, proud to serve them. He led them into the basement, where both his bar and gun closet happened to be. After pouring them each a shot of chilled whiskey behind his bar, they saluted each other in their usual manner and gulped them down.

Following the gracious introduction and welcome, Malone motioned for them to follow him to the door leading to a separate room within the basement. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and used three of them to unlock a series of latches. When he pushed the door open, he flicked on the light, which hummed with life as it bathed the room in a dim, almost erotic glow.

Connor and Murphy stood in the doorway, staring inside at the ominous shrine of weaponry, feeling almost unworthy of setting foot inside of it. From what they could see from their position, the wall ahead of them alone was covered with mounted shotguns of many calibers. High above them, close to the ceiling, sat a sniper rifle.

"Oh God," Murphy said once he caught his breath. "I t'ink I've changed my mind about what I t'ink heaven looks like."

"Come on in," beckoned Malone. "Don't be afraid. They won't bite unless they're loaded."

Connor nudged his brother into the room, making him stumble forward. Connor wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth as he looked upon each wall with simultaneous orgasmic joy and youthful wonderment. "Is it our birt'day yet?" Murphy, his mouth hanging open, shook his head. "It feels like it."

"Let me know if you see anything worth your while. I'd be happy to give you guys something on the house." A buzzing sound interrupted what little conversation there was. Connor turned toward the sound, seeing Malone pull out his pager. "I have to go. You're welcome to stay here."

"Seriously?" Connor asked, almost tripped over his own feet as he stepped, his eyes locked back onto the gun-laden walls.

"Sure. But you can't load the guns. Literally. I have the ammo locked in a separate case."

They didn't bother to argue. "We wouldn't do a t'ing like dat, anyway," Connor assured.

"Help yourselves to the bar, and the television. I should be back in a few hours."

Connor, for reasons unexplained, felt comfortable with it. It was the closest thing to a "sleepover" at a friend's as it could get. "Hey, uh…" he called once Malone began heading for the staircase. Malone paused and gave him a passing glance. "T'anks, Malone. Dis was… kinda cool o'ya."

"Eric," he corrected.

Connor raised his first two fingers to his forehead, then saluted him. "Eric."

"Figured you both could use a night out of that flea-ridden apartment." After a wink, he ascended the stairs.

When the two of them were alone again, they went back to admiring the room they stood in. "What do dey say about guys who own dis many guns?" Murphy wondered aloud.

Connor cracked a hint of a smug grin. "Run."


	5. Chapter 5

Eric Malone's arsenal was more than just a canvas of assault weapons, but a dream come true for any avid gun-lover. Though he had been there for at least five minutes staring at the hulks of black steel, Murphy still found it difficult to believe he was standing amongst some of the finest craftsmanship known to mankind. There, before his eyes, ripe for the picking, and if he was a petty fellow, he'd snatch them all.

Many thoughts crossed Connor's mind, but the most prominent question was: "Why does one man need so many weapons?" Of course, if he hadn't known the kind of job Malone had undertaken, he would have been even more confused. He wondered then, staring at the deadly items, if Malone even used half of them for what they were intended for. His guess was that he didn't.

Murphy started browsing as though he had just walked into a shop, picking up various guns and getting a feel for them in his hands. Connor hadn't yet touched anything, wishing not to disturb what obviously took a very long time to set up and construct. Instead, he watched his twin place various guns of many sizes in his hands and wave them around, shake his head, put them back, then pick something else.

After rotating through several types of handguns, Murphy hauled a shotgun off of the wall and lifted the barrel while snuggling the butt of it against his shoulder, peering down the sight. Now _this_ was what power felt like. Though he wasn't a practiced murderer, he knew that it was impractical to assassinate with shotguns. They were heavy, obvious, and made too much noise. Still, the weight of it in his hands and the knowledge of its kick gave him goose bumps. He found it difficult to let it go.

It took him a few moments to realize Connor had been watching his every move, and was staring at him now. Murphy lowered the barrel at a gradual pace, his daunted eyes meeting Connor's, and he cracked a partial smile.

"What?" he breathed.

A streak of sweat snuck down the base of Connor's neck, which he wiped off as he tongued his inner cheek. Murphy had been familiar with that look, and it was one he had been missing the past few days. "No'tin'," Connor answered, bordering a whisper.

"_Some_'tin'," Murphy pried.

"I dunno what it is… but dere's some'tin' about ya holdin' dat."

Murphy looked at the gun in his hands, then back up to Connor, flicking his head back, though his hair was too short for it to have any effect. He lifted the shotgun higher into the air, once again gripping it with both hands. The higher he raised it, the wider Connor's smile got.

"I t'ink ya were born to hold a gun," Connor complimented as he took a few steps closer to Murphy.

"Could say de same fer you," Murphy returned, turning the barrel away so that Connor could get within touching distance.

"Never t'ought guns to be all dat sexy. Now I just wanna fuck yer brains out."

Murphy almost dropped the shotgun, now that his palms became too sweaty to grip anything. Connor grabbed the gun from him, set it down on the counter top behind them, then ripped a handgun from the wall and passed it to him. Murphy, curious, gaped at it as he gripped it.

"Go on, aim it at meh."

"I… huh?"

"Aim it at my head."

"Connor…"

"It's not loaded, fer fuck's sake." He grabbed Murphy's wrist and lifted it, pointing the barrel between his own eyes. Staring down at both the black barrel and at Murphy's tight grip around the handle, seeing him hold the weapon in the air in the same manner he would when preparing to kill someone, caused a fit of chills to move across Connor's every single nerve and vein—including the ones in his groin.

"Ya sure it ain't loaded?" Murphy pondered, feeling uncomfortable.

"Check it and see."

Murphy withdrew his arm at once, checking the chamber and clip. Both were empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, but still scolded his brother with a glare.

"I told ya." He slapped Murphy's arm. "Go on, point it at meh again."

"Dis… is weird, Connor."

"Come on. Yer so hot when ya do it." He allowed time for Murphy to pick his jaw back up off the floor. "I dunno why. I just love lookin' at ya when yer holdin' one. Look at meh, I'm fuckin' shakin'."

Murphy tightened his grip around the gun's handle, smirking at his brother, his gaze falling to the tent he was pitching down below. Murphy didn't think Connor was the type to get turned on by the concept of violence, but he did manage to surprise him with something every day. The thrill of turning Connor on had him just as excited, and he no longer felt strange about lifting the gun and pointing it at his forehead. Connor shut his eyes for a brief moment, sighing through his nostrils, his tongue slipping his mouth to glaze his upper lip. When he next opened them, Murphy had a playful look of seriousness on his face. Oh, this would be interesting, Connor felt.

_[Semi-explicit erotic scene inserted here. Removed so I don't get punished a la assassination. Full chapter at archiveofourown dot org /works/1840609/chapters/4037289_]

As he recalled how to form words, Murphy smacked his cottony mouth. "Dat was…" No word could describe it. It was just that incredible. How did he go through his entire life without receiving oral sex? How could anyone? "Fuckin' deadly," he concluded.

"Yer welcome," Connor said with a chuckle.

"_Fuck,_" Murphy sighed in afterthought. "I can't move."

"Yer gonna have to if ya want more o'dat whiskey."

"Ya can't jus'… bring meh some?"

"Go fuck yerself," Connor dismissed, getting to his feet and leaving the room to head for the bar.

Murphy shouted, "Dat's what I've got you for!" He then grabbed his throat, which was raw and scratchy from so much yelling. When he did manage to climb to his feet, he used the tail of his shirt to wipe Connor's near-gallon of spit off of himself before putting the handgun back where it belonged and joining his brother at the bar. When he sat down in one of the stools, Connor draped an arm around him and crushed him against his chest.

"Fer de record," Connor said when seeing the sleepy eyes of Murphy squint at him. "Ya tasted like beer." Murphy smirked and burst out laughing alongside Connor.

"I could open a brewery, den. Wouldn't tell anyone what de secret ingredient is." He reached for their empty shot glasses and the bottle of whiskey with lackadaisical arms, which had gone sort of limp since blowing his wad. Connor leaned over the bar and grabbed it, pouring them each a shot.

"_Veritas_," Connor said first.

"Awesome blow jobs," Murphy answered, then gulped his drink before Connor could remark on it. Connor took his shot as well before giving Murphy one of the wettest kisses they've shared, and one of the tastiest. "We're drinkin' dis whole bottle, right?"

"Fuckin' A," Connor confirmed before pouring them some more.

...

Upon entering the house, Eric heard the sound of laughter from the basement, where he was sure neither Connor nor Murphy had set foot out of since he left. He stopped first at his office, where he set his briefcase down and hung up his tie, then he walked into the kitchen to grab an apple from the fridge, hearing F-bombs dropped every five seconds from the room below.

Moving across the house to another room while chewing on his apple, Eric removed his jacket as he entered, the glow of monitors flaring his skin as he sat down and stared at each of them. The feed from each individual camera he had set up in every room concluded that Connor and Murphy hadn't managed to wreck anything in his house, by some sort of miracle, nor had they invaded his privacy—not that they could without his keys. He reversed the security tape just to be absolutely sure of the facts. The camera inside of the arsenal revealed something he felt he should be charging people to look at.

"Lord," he groaned in revulsion, palming his face. Watching Connor blow his brother in his gun closet was one thing he didn't want to see when arriving home, but he supposed he only had himself to blame for letting them stay there. He stopped the tape before his partially digested apple could come up, then headed down to the basement hoping to stop them from any other wild shenanigans they might have been up to.

On entering the basement, he saw Connor and Murphy on the floor, rolling and tumbling in a non-threatening and non-violent wrestling match, spitting insults at each other. They hadn't even heard Eric come in, and they weren't about to. They struggled and fought as one tried to overpower the other, and for reasons that only they knew.

"Say it again, ya fuckin' little shit!"

"Fuck off!" Though there was much hostility in Murphy's words, there were traces of laughter in them.

"I can do dis all day! Go on!"

"_Fuck you!_"

Amused, Eric watched the fray as he stepped into the room and headed for the bar, wondering if they'd even notice him. Too focused in the brawl, they hadn't. Sitting down in one of the soft stools, Malone noticed the empty bottle of whiskey on the bar top and shook his head.

"Ya fuckin' dumbass!"

"I'll knock yer fuckin' teeth out!"

"Aye, sure ya will! Ya couldn't knock out a baby, ya pussy!"

"I'll do it, I'll fuckin' do it!"

"Fifty on Murphy," Eric said to the brothers, who stopped their boyish wrestling to look at their visitor with bulging, reddish eyes. Connor, who was wrestling Murphy, sat up, pinning him down by sitting on his lap.

"Uh… hi," he said with a sheepish grin.

Murphy, struggling beneath Connor, grunted, "Get off meh, ya fat ass!"

Clicking his tongue, Eric joked, "Do you guys do this often, or just when you're drunk?"

Connor climbed off of Murphy, who got up off of the floor as soon as he was free. "He started it," Connor defended, staggering.

"Bullshit," Murphy slurred with an inebriated leer. "Was you."

"Murphy. Your brother sucks your dick and this is how you repay him?"

"Well, we're not really_—_" Whatever thought he was about to exclaim culminated. "Wait, what'd ya say?"

"How'd you…?" Connor wondered.

"You think I'd just let you both hang out here in my house when I didn't have cameras everywhere? Please." They both went as quiet as the dead, but the pink shade of their skin told all they needed to convey. Eric bellowed out a laugh. "Don't be so coy. If you're going to fuck each other, take a little pride in it." He stood up and went around the bar as the two of them stood idle beside one another, fidgeting and clearing their throats. Eric retrieved a beer from the small refrigerator and cracked it open, taking a few sips.

"We're sorry," Connor apologized, his embarrassed head low.

"For what?"

"Fer… dat."

"You didn't look sorry in the video."

"Christ," Murphy whined, hiding his shamed face.

"Really, what makes you think I care? It's not news to me that you two bump uglies. Do it all you want, it's your fucking life. Just don't do it in front of me, and we're all good. Or in my gun cabinet…" They both took a deep breath and released it over several seconds. "Now, why the hell were you fighting?"

"We were fightin'?" he said to Murphy in particular.

"We weren't fightin'. Not really."

"Then why is Connor gushing blood?" Murphy, shocked, grabbed Connor and looked him over, checking him for wounds, and when he didn't find any, he glowered at Eric, who was chuckling. "Take a seat, fellas. We need to have a chat." Connor sat to his left, and Murphy sat to Connor's. "I've received a new client. This one's got a bit of a reputation for being a suspected prostitute killer. But he doesn't just kill them. He has these fetishes, you understand?" They nodded, though they didn't really. "Necrophilia. He rapes them after killing them."

"Like… when dey're dead?" asked Connor.

"When they're _very_ dead." Murphy brought a fist to his closed mouth. "Bathroom's over there." He pointed to the door in the corner, which Murphy fled to. Connor made no remark, but Eric didn't wait for one. "He's well-protected, you see. His father is a lawyer. I have plenty of evidence that would put this guy away forever. I'm just afraid it won't be possible. The only way to get rid of him for sure is to… eliminate him from the picture."

"When do we get to it?"

"Soon. You boys are going to scout with me. Have you ever wanted to know what it was like to be a PI?"

"Not perticurlarly…"

"Well, you're going to get a feel for it real soon." Murphy rejoined them, holding his stomach as he slumped back to the bar. Connor folded his arms on the top of the bar, unable to hold his head up. Murphy leaned against Connor for support to keep from falling out his chair. "You're not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, are you?"

"Pro'lly not."

Eric rubbed his brow. Once again, he only had himself to blame for that one. "The couch is a sleeper-sofa. You're welcome to sleep on it."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say ya wanted to watch us on yer little cameras some more."

With a roll of his dark eyes, Eric shook his head. "I'd rather suck a tailpipe, Connor."

Connor swayed in his spot as he spoke. "Dat sounded mildly sexual."

"To someone like you, I can imagine so."

"Ah, go on. Deny it all ya like. Ya wanna get a little piece o'de action. Well _too bad_, Malone. I'd sooner shoot ya den to see ya lay a hand on my bro'ter." Murphy smiled at him, though it was tough to tell with how intoxicated he was. He grinned even wider when Connor's hand traced his spine.

"I wouldn't lay a hand on your brother if my life depended on it."

"_Good._ Ya don't wanna see dat side o'meh."

"I'll take your word for it." Despite the odious manner in which he spoke to him, he couldn't help but smile at Connor's demeanor.

Connor glanced at Murphy, who had passed out with his head tucked between his arms. He sighed and slid off of his stool and picked him up off of his seat. The ritualistic, customary method in which this was performed had Eric all the more curious about their closeness. As Connor draped his brother over his shoulder, Eric got up as well.

"Do you need help with him?" he offered.

"Nah. He ain't heavy." His lips spread into a grin as he sang, "_He's my brotheeeeer._"

Eric hadn't heard or felt himself use a genuine, entertained laugh in longer than he could surmise, but that had him giggling. Mystified, he wondered how a young man like Connor had even heard that song. He had to admit he was impressed. He watched as Connor carried Murphy to the comfort of the couch, which faced a large-screen television, which was on, but muted. He laid him down and threw a blanket over him before giving his forehead a wet smooch, which Murphy responded to by swatting at his face.

"Little pain in de ass," he cooed at the conked out Murphy. Once that was taken care of, he looked at Eric, who observed them. "Ya said to meh once dat ya had a bro'ter."

Nodding, he said, "I do. Sort of. We don't speak anymore, not since he's been in and out of prison."

"Ya miss 'im?"

That question had never been asked of him before. When faced with it, he had no idea what to say. He tried his best never to think of him unless it was absolutely necessary. "I don't know, Connor."

"I'm sure he misses you."

"I'd rather not discuss it right now."

Thinking this was a fair proviso, Connor let it go, save for one final question. "May I ask what his name is?"

Eric's dry lips parted. "Marshall."

He committed the name to memory for later conversation. "T'anks."

"May I ask why you don't like the rosary?"

Connor hoped he'd never notice he was without it when they saw each other. Now he had to explain himself, and he was never very good at that. "I… like it and all… it's just…"

"Too personal."

Those were indeed words Connor might have chosen had he not be so far under the influence. "Aye."

Finally leaving his stool, Eric came to Connor's side and placed an empathetic hand upon his shoulder. "That's all right. You don't have to wear it. Just hold onto it in case you ever might need it."

Alleviated by the fact that Eric wasn't going to snap his neck for it, Connor smiled at him. "I appreciate ya understandin'. I know ya didn't mean any'tin' bad."

Checking his watch, Eric heaved a deep sigh. "I have some paperwork to go over. You'll both be all right down here?" Connor waved his head up and down, then wished he hadn't. The whole room now spun in circles. "Good night, then." Connor also wished him good night before sitting down on the couch next to Murphy, watching television for a while before also catching a few blackout Zs.

As Eric slipped into his office, he dwindled on Connor's question. _Did he miss Marshall?_ Loved him, definitely. Missed him? That was a tough call. He didn't keep in contact with most of his family anymore, just in off chance that he did happen to get caught doing what he did. He trained himself to forget them, to distance himself from them, even to despise them a little. He never would have considered before that he _missed_ them in any way.

There was more than taking innocent lives that Eric wanted to take back, but now it was too late, and things needed to get done, whether or not his conscience was clear on the matter.


	6. Chapter 6

To Connor and Murphy's eyes, Hill Street looked just like any other suburban neighborhood. Each house they passed looked almost identical to the last—white doors and windows on a brick exterior—until Eric parked his white, rented car parallel to the curb opposite of his destination. The lawn of their target's house looked freshly mowed and well-manicured compared to that of his neighbor, and a fence closed off an area of his driveway and backyard.

Eric shut off the engine and leaned back in his seat, saying nothing, still as a statue as he fixed his eyes on the house across the street. Connor gave Murphy a quick glance as he rested his exhausted, spinning head on his shoulder before turning back to Eric.

"How long do we have to sit here?"

"Long enough to learn our guy's patterns," Eric told him, matter-of-factly.

"What if ya get hungry?"

With a casual shrug, he said, "Usually I bring a lunch with me. Other times I take a break and go pick something up."

"So… we're gonna be sittin' here fer hours?" groaned Murphy.

Connor had to join him on his aggravation. "_Please_ tell meh we're gonna listen to de radio."

"I _am_ listening to the radio." Eric drummed his hand upon the police scanner. Both brothers whined.

"Dere's gotta be a more practical way to get shit done."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "Like goin' in and blowin' everyone away."

"Hunting requires patience, gentlemen." Eric rubbed his brow, already regretting bringing them along.

"We know dat. We used to hunt toge'ter."

"But we didn't do it sittin' in a car."

"Exactly."

Fed up with the griping, Eric snapped, "Why don't you make your own entertainment?"

Birds chirped outside the window as Connor and Murphy sat in silence for several moments, static coming in from the police scanner every once in a while. They both wanted to smoke, but Eric had already made it clear that he didn't want them smoking in the car with him.

Murphy, unable to bear the quiet for long, turned to Connor and uttered, "Dog."

Connor didn't need to question what it was he was doing. "Cat."

Murphy: "Iron."

Connor: "Guns."

"Burnt."

"Toast."

"Potato."

"Famine."

Murphy giggled at that one. Connor mimicked his laugh. "Needle."

Connor curled his nose in a look of deep thought. Murphy, grinning, leaned closer to him every second he didn't say something in return. "Ah… fuck…"

Murphy slapped his hands together in Connor's ear, making him flinch. "Time's up. Round one to meh."

"I could'a t'ought o'one! I just…"

"Yeh, yeh. Lose like a winner, Connor."

Leaning toward Murphy's face, eyes darkening, Connor next said, "House."

Taking the challenge, Murphy responded with pride. "Family."

"Box."

"Stash."

"Foreskin."

"Missing."

Daunted for a moment, Connor had to think that one over for a second, then he plummeted into a fit of cackles, as did Murphy. Eric stared at them in the rearview mirror, tightening his hands into balling fists.

"Ghost."

"Bust."

Connor keeled over with laughter again, and Murphy slapped him on the back.

"_Please!_" Eric shouted over the sound of them cracking up like a couple of stoners. "Please… do something else."

Covering his mouth to keep his laughter inside of it, Connor looked to Murphy for ideas. Murphy, now exasperated with the killjoy in their presence, decided to stir things up a bit.

"Malone," he said. Eric's cold gaze moved toward his reflection in the rearview mirror. "Were ya kicked in de ass a lot as a kid?"

"On the contrary, Murphy," Eric answered, turning back toward the house he watched. "I was brought up in a wonderful home with a wonderful family and had many friends."

"So it must be genetic, den. Yer parents must have been just as borin'."

"If personalities are genetically passed on, you can rest assured that yours were foolish and inbred."

Their glowers, vindictive and taunting, shaded their faces. "Ma's a fool, fer sure. Inbred, I couldn't tell ya. It'd explain a lot, t'ough."

"It explains that she drank while pregnant."

"Ay," Connor interjected, not liking where this was going. "Give it a rest, all 'ight?"

Unfortunately, Murphy wasn't one to give up early. "Aye. Ya'd know what dat's like."

"Murph, cut it out. Sit back."

"I'm afraid you have me at a loss, Murphy. I'd insult your awful dialect and apparent alcoholic heritage, but I ran out of comedic material long ago. So allow me to conclude this conversation with a, 'go an' binge yerself on whiskeh and potatoes' and we'll call it an evening."

"You fuckin' son of a…"

"Murph! Let it go! Just stop!"

Pouting, Murphy sank back into his seat, folding his arms. Connor was well aware that he'd have to make up for this later, to both of them. He was back at home again, settling arguments between Murphy and their mother, calming them both down, getting them to understand the other's position. It only worked some of the time. He was sure it would be no different in this case.

Eric, no longer concerned with either of them, sat up in his seat when he saw their target walk out of the house. He checked the time on both his watch and car's stereo, then reached for a notebook sitting in the passenger seat, which he flipped open and wrote the time in. "Good. This is when our client said our guy goes to work every day. I'm going to go into the house. You're both staying here."

"Why?" Connor asked.

"Because I'd like to check it out before sending either of you in. I'll know what to do if trouble comes up. You won't."

"Oh, so he brought us fer no'tin', dat's great," Murphy grumbled, restless, bobbing his shoulders and kicking at the floor.

Though Connor knew Murphy was a complainer, he had to agree. If Eric didn't trust them, why did he bring them along? Something about this whole thing didn't feel right to him. "Shouldn't we have a way to contact ya in case we see some'tin'?"

"You won't see anything." Eric stepped out of the vehicle, gently shutting his door before heading across the street. As soon as he was out of sight, Connor turned to his brother.

"Dat seem weird to ya?"

Murphy threw his nose into the air with a scoff. "Every'tin' he does seems weird to meh."

"Maybe he needs more time to trust us, but… I feel like dere might be some'tin' he knows."

The corner of Murphy's upper lip rose, showing his incisor. "I've been t'inkin' dat since we met 'im. There's shit he ain't tellin' us."

"Why would he bother? It makes no sense."

"What do we do? We can't just ask 'im. He t'inks we're stupider den we are, and I'd rather he kept t'inking it."

Connor slipped one of his fingernails into his mouth and chewed on it as he went over the possibilities. That's when he noticed the composition notebook resting on the passenger seat. He dove for it, snatching it and opening it as fast as he could. Inside, many pages had been torn out, leaving the book's binding loose and floppy. On the first page was an address, direction, times, and a series of numbers that Connor had to assume was for an alarm. From what he could tell of Eric's careful scribbles, he had spent time at the house on many occasions without including them.

"He's already been to de house," he muttered, anxiety clutching at his gut.

Murphy leaned closer. "What's it say?" Connor showed him the notes, and Murphy gave them a thorough scan. "I fuckin' knew it. Why would he do dat unless he wanted to keep some'tin' from us? What else is de fucker hidin'?"

"I dunno. He seems to get along better wit' meh den you. Let me talk to 'im. Maybe he'll open up to meh."

"I don't want ya gettin' hurt, Connor."

"Relax. I'll be careful." The front door of the house opened, and Connor saw Eric striding out of it. He dropped the notebook back into the seat where he found it and told his twin, "Stay on his good side, ya hear meh?"

"Fine," he grunted, opposed, but would do what Connor asked of him. The driver's side door popped open and Eric climbed back into the vehicle, giving the twins a once over.

"Our guy is married," he told them, which they nodded at, keeping their cool for now. "What a world."

"Aye," they both managed to croak out.

Noting the change in their pitch, it roused suspicion. "You two okay?"

"Someone came by de window and asked us some questions," Connor covered for them, which Murphy was grateful for, since he couldn't have come up with anything better on the fly. "It rattled us a little."

"_Someone?_" Eric, now concerned, looked into the windows of each of the houses on the block. "Who were they? What'd they look like?"

"Uh…"

"Tall," Murphy added. "Blond. Wore a lot of plaid." Connor cocked an eyebrow at him and he shrugged.

"Hm," answered a disturbed Eric, who was now jotting something new in his notebook. "What'd he ask you?"

"What we were doin'. If we lived in de neighborhood. We just told him we were waitin' fer a friend." Connor pulled the back of his hand across his forehead as Eric continued to ask questions. He wasn't a very good liar, and he was sure their friend could tell that.

"I see…" He slapped the notebook shut when he finished what he was writing. "Looks like we'll have to be more discreet next time." The engine roared to life as he turned the key, then after checking the street, he pulled into it.

Once they were back on the road, Connor made a request. "Would it be much trouble if we stayed wit' ya a little longer?"

Surprised, Eric asked, "You like it there?"

"Oh, yeah. It's great. A lot more comfortable den our place. Cleaner, too."

"It wouldn't be because I have a bar… would it?"

"Nah. Dat's… a perk."

When seeing that Murphy didn't seem interested in contributing his opinion, he flashed them each a grin in the mirror. "Is that okay with your brother?"

"Where Connor's at," Murphy clarified, "I am."

Eric ignored Murphy's crafty avoidance of the question. "All right. I suppose if that's what you'd like to do, I don't see the harm in it."

...

It was a twenty minute drive back to Eric's home, a drive that neither brother spoke for, though they shared similar thoughts. Murphy excused himself to go downstairs for a drink, but Connor stayed behind with Eric, who didn't appear in much of a hurry to follow Murphy anywhere.

"Not drinking another whole bottle of whiskey?" Eric snorted while removing his necktie.

Connor followed him to his office, where he placed a leather case and folders upon his desk. "I actually meant to speak wit' ya."

His first concern was leaving Murphy alone in his basement, wondering just how much alcohol he could consume in a night. On second thought, he figured he wouldn't have many opportunities to have discussions with Connor about much of anything. "Something troubling you?"

If Connor hoped to get Eric to tell him anything worthwhile, he knew he had to choose his questions carefully. "Not really. Just wanted to… chat."

_Chat?_ Wondered Eric, who couldn't remember the last time he struck up casual conversation unless it was with a client. "Wanting to get to know the man behind the mask, eh?"

"Is dat askin' too much?"

Sliding his coat off, Eric shook his head. "No, Connor. It's strange, is all. Most people go out of their way to avoid me. And that's fine. I don't particularly like most people." He pulled up a seat for Connor, directing him to sit, and he did. He also sat, in his swiveling, creaking office chair behind his desk, crossing his palms upon the surface of it. "Please. Chat away."

This was harder than he thought it would be. Connor had just as much trouble talking to anyone that wasn't a good friend or Murphy. "How long have ya lived here? In dis house, I mean?"

Brushing some of his waved, faded hair from his eyes, Eric told him, "Six years."

"By yerself?"

His head drooped, but he picked it back up a second later. "Yes."

"S'a lot of room fer one guy."

There was a lull in the conversation, and Connor thought he had abandoned it. "It is," he said at last, after several seconds had gone by. "But I like my space."

Connor didn't want to tread on thin ice, but now that the subject had arisen, it prickled his curiosity. "I take it yer profession keeps ya from gettin' close to people."

"Something like that," he said while loosening his collar.

"Isn't dat… kinda…?"

"Miserable?"

"Aye…"

"You get used to it. To be honest with you, Connor, I barely see people as… _people_ anymore. I don't mind giving them up. Think of it as going on a diet the rest of your life— abolishing all of the disgusting things that tempt you. That's the way I've always seen it."

Connor tried to imagine living Eric's life, shut up and locked away inside of a large house with no friends and his brother, the most important thing to him, in a jail cell. He couldn't fathom it, no matter how hard he tried. Now that Eric had told him this, he wished he had never asked about it, because he became more invested in the discussion than he had been previously.

"Ya don't ever get… ya know… lonely?"

"That's the feeling you get when you want the company of others, correct?"

He faked an uneven laugh. "Guess dat answers my question."

"No. I do not get lonely." As he leaned back in the chair, it squealed in protest. "However… I do have one regret." Connor was all ears. "I've nearly reached the end of my lifetime. I never found the time to settle down, get married, do the usual thing that people do with each other. I never really found a point in it, since I didn't feel capable of loving anyone, or anything." He hesitated, eyeing the surface of his shiny desk, which was glazed enough to produce a reflection. "I wish I had children of my own. I'm too old for that now. I missed my chance."

Connor had intended talking with Eric in order to get some information out of him about their job, and instead ended up learning more than he could handle. "If it makes ya feel any better," he began, fully accepting that it would do none of the sort, "Murph and I didn't know our fa'ter."

"Didn't know him?" he repeated, his voice not nearly as reproachful as it had been in the car with Murphy.

"Aye. He left us when we were wee." He lowered his hand to the floor just to illustrate the point. Eric nodded, but said nothing, though Connor could detect an unusual softness in his demeanor. "Heard lots o't'ings about 'im. But we never met 'im. Ma would always answer my questions when I had dem. I always wanted to find 'im. We never did. Murph… he feels a little differently, I t'ink. He resents 'im. Blames 'im fer a lot o't'ings—ma cryin', and all. I can't hold it against Murph for feelin' dat way. We'd be… _different_ if da had been around."

Speechless, Eric took a few moments to retain the tale to his memory. "I'd say you and Murphy are already pretty 'different', wouldn't you?"

Now that he had the floor, he felt he should use it. "I s'ppose. It's tough livin' dat way, t'ough. Sometimes I t'ink even Murph has his issues wit' it."

"With what? Your relationship?"

At the word "relationship," Connor's mood darkened, and he bowed his head. "If ya want to call it dat."

Eric's intrigue heightened at Connor's confiding, loaning him an ear. "Is that not what it is?"

"Oh. Sure. Sure. He just doesn't have a way wit' words is all."

"You mean he's a 'fuck now, talk later' sort of fellow."

Connor pressed the tip of his finger against his nose and nodded, shutting his eyes. "I know he loves meh. He'd just prefer to… hide, rather den tell meh any'tin'. Dat's just de way he is. I've known him our whole lives, so I've already accepted it. I s'ppose, in a way, it's what makes me de perfect one fer 'im."

"I think you might be right, Connor." Eric couldn't imagine someone as abrasive as Murphy getting along with anyone else. "May I ask you something?"

"Aye."

"Am I the only one that knows about it?" Connor nodded. "Interesting."

"Why do ya ask?"

"Aside from the clients that have paid me for my services… you and Murphy are the only ones who know about _my_ life. It seems we've established a sort of kinship without realizing it, haven't we?"

"I… I guess so, yeh."

"Not to be so… to-the-point… but it's been a very long time since I've had anything that resembled a friend. And not to be so grim… but I'm glad you were the one who put Tony out of his misery instead of me. I would never have met you."

Connor swallowed as his mouth ran dry. He had to admit—even Murphy had trouble showing appreciation from time to time. To hear someone actually tell him he belonged in another's life was refreshing. "I… aye. Likewise."

"It might be too much to ask for, Connor… but perhaps you could be the ones to carry on my legacy."

He had to smile at that. He knew just what he was offering to him, and it touched him in many ways. "I hope we don't disappoint ya, den."

Eric ran a sweating palm over his neck and shoulder, debating on telling him the truth. Connor and Murphy definitely had blood thirst within them, but he still recognized them as pleasant young men with ambition for doing good. As similar as Connor thought they might be, they were still polar opposites, lying on other ends of the spectrum. However, the moment was too warm for him to wreck with such shocking revelations. Connor seemed to look up to him, and he couldn't ruin that image now. It was what he always wanted—a pair of youthful, curious eyes looking upon him in admiration and following in his footsteps. An heir to his throne. A son.

"You… you won't." He didn't need to know what time it was, but he checked his watch anyway. "You should probably check on your brother. He might be half-dead from alcohol poisoning already."

These words alone sent Connor's heart into rapid vibrations, and he leapt from his chair in a swift, fleeting motion before launching out the door. He intended to follow him downstairs, but for a while he couldn't move. All he could think of now was what he kept from them, and Connor's hope and wisdom, which were vibrant for someone his age.

Eric had no doubt in his mind that the two of them would discover the truth on their own. Perhaps he wanted it that way. Whatever happened, he would let fate decide. It was nowhere near as picky as he was.


	7. Chapter 7

Over the coming days, the three of them fell into a routine. Eric would pick them up from work at the end of their shift, bring them back to his house, and then he would discuss other types of work with them. It was Connor he spoke to most, and Murphy wasn't blind to it. From his point of view, it became all too clear that Eric was more than a teacher to Connor at this stage, and when Eric made little-to-no effort to bond with Murphy on any level, the facts became difficult to ignore, and the resentment Murphy felt only grew to palpable heights.

On Friday, as they finished up at the plant, Connor seemed in a good mood. This only put Murphy off further. "What're ya so chipper about?"

Connor, who had been whistling, stopped when Murphy addressed it. "Dunno. Just am." He grunted as Murphy knocked into him on his way to the exit. "What's _yer_ problem, eh?"

"I'm not stupid, Connor."

"_What?_"

"Don't take meh fer a fuckin' retard, all 'ight? I know I'm yer bro'ter, but I think I'm still owed a little respect!"

"What de fuckin' hell are ya talkin' about?"

Now that they were outside, Murphy lit up a cigarette and puffed at it, smoking it down in no time flat. "Come on, Connor. I see how Malone is wit' ya. I see ya gettin' all friendly-like. Ya even call him by his first name now."

This was the first time Connor had heard anything about Murphy's feelings on the matter, and that alone made him frustrated. How long had he been letting this brew and stir within him before letting it out? "Murph, dere's no reason to be jealous."

"_I am not jealous!_" He grabbed a handful of his hair and dug his fingers into it, turning away from him.

"Ya clearly are. And m'sorry ya feel dat way. Dere's only so many ways I can tell ya dat I love ya."

"Oh yeh? When was de last time ya said it to meh?"

Connor panicked somewhat as he tried to remember. "Well… ya don't say it much to meh ei'ter, Murph."

"So yer tryin' to find someone else to?"

"Dat's not— what— yer insane, ya know dat?!"

"I love you, Connor! Dere, ya happy now?!"

"I love you too!"

The two of them stood, panting, aggravated, several feet apart. When Murphy's eyes produced a fresh glaze over them, Connor stepped closer, and when he didn't resist, he pulled him into a tight squeeze.

When they caught their breath, Connor lowered his voice. "I'm not goin' anywhere." Murphy's arms swung around his neck and he buried his face underneath his chin, and Connor was lavished with a collection of a apologetic kisses. "Eric's… well, he's got no one else. I'm just tryin' to be a good friend."

"And he only wants _yer_ friendship. He fuckin' hates meh. And I don't like 'im much, ei'ter." What Murphy failed to tell Connor was that he also believed Eric to be a liar. He knew that Connor trusted him, and he didn't want to be a pain in the ass if he didn't have any facts to prove it, or else he'd distance himself even farther from his brother, and he didn't want that. If he had something on Malone he could use, he would use it. Until then, he wouldn't bring it up.

"Just try not to call 'im names," Connor suggested, "And I'm sure he'd be willin' to get along wit' ya."

"Can't help it. He's an asshole. Always has been."

For now, Connor let it go, though he continued to cling to Murphy, who refused to relinquish him to Eric when he arrived. Connor had to practically pry Murphy's arms from his waist before they climbed into the backseat of Eric's rented vehicle. When they entered, Eric greeted Connor, but not Murphy. Murphy shot Connor a quick "told you" glare, but Connor put it out of his mind for now.

"Today is the day I let you guys spread your wings a little," Eric explained as he drove them to his house. "I'm going to send one of you in to do the job alone to see how you can handle it. Murphy—you were such a good shot before, I've decided that you should be the one to do it."

Murphy, unlike Connor, was suspicious right away. "Seems a bit premature to send me off on my own already."

"I think you could handle it. You've got a powerful aggression in you that Connor only has a glimmer of in comparison."

Flattery wouldn't get him anywhere. "Aye? And what's Connor gonna do? Sit and watch meh?"

Eric had to chuckle at that. "Would you prefer he blew you while you did it?"

"Ya t'ink yer real funny, doncha?"

"On occasion." He didn't allow Murphy the chance to retort. "Connor will clean up the mess."

To confirm if this was all right with his brother, he looked at Connor, who glanced back. "Eric… is Murph gonna be… safe in dere?"

"Absolutely. I know the perfect place he can hide in. Really, Connor. Would I put your brother in danger knowing what you would do to me?"

Connor passed Murphy a reassuring smile, but Murphy still wasn't convinced. "And what if I'm not safe? How will ya guys know?"

A light dawned over Connor's head. "We could put a wire on him. We could hear every'tin'."

"A wire…" Eric repeated, grimacing. He didn't expect Connor to think of something like that. "I… guess that would work."

"If we hear any'tin' I'll come help 'im."

"You should probably let me handle it if that happens, Connor," Eric warned, though Connor was stubborn when it came to Murphy, and he knew it.

"Murph's my responsibility, no matter what we're doin'."

"I realize that… but…"

"I'd rather have Connor come to my rescue den you, to be honest," Murphy sneered with confidence. "Any fuckin' day."

"Fine, Murphy. Have it your way." During their drive back to his house, he stopped for a coffee, and bought some for Connor and Murphy as well, in addition to donuts. Then he brought them to his own house to give them new weapons. He recommended Beretta 92s, which they seemed to like, and included silencers on them, but wouldn't hand them over until they had gloves on.

Eric proceeded to ready the wire that would be strapped to Murphy, a small microphone that would be taped to his chest. Murphy, however, dealt with it in difficulty, as he didn't want Eric touching him. In the past few days, Eric had become more than just annoyed with Murphy. No matter how they spent their time—whether it was staking out the house, in his office going over plans, or just making general conversation, Murphy wouldn't erase the deadly glare from his face, nor would he refrain from making sarcastic remarks. The hostility only seemed to increase when he and Connor would talk to one another.

Unintentionally, Murphy had become a primary liability. He was skeptical, cynical, and had a closer eye on him since he had bonded with Connor, and Eric could sense just how the situation could unfold. With Murphy watching his every move, he had to be twice as cautious with what information he gave them, and he had to be mindful of his influence on Connor, who despite their friendship, would always lean toward Murphy in the event of a dispute. He didn't blame him. Murphy was family, and you don't turn your back on family— especially if they were more than just family to you.

Murphy became too much of a bloodhound in the previous days following his secured friendship with Connor, so much that he had to change the combination of his safe in fear of Murphy learning it. He would hear Connor talk him down from time to time, tell him that he was just being "his usual paranoid self," but Murphy had his doubts no matter what Connor said. Eric had come to believe that Murphy's purpose was more than just protecting Connor's life—it was also protecting his mind from being manipulated. Eric wouldn't deny he used them, nor would he deny he manipulated them. He would deny, though, that he wasn't Connor's friend. He thought himself to be.

The plan was not to set up Murphy for destruction. It was to set him up for failure. He didn't want Murphy dead. Connor would blast his nuts off if he allowed it. He did, on the other hand, want to show him just how badly they needed him for guidance. If Murphy's opinion could be tweaked, he could enforce trust. Connor was weaker without Murphy, and the same went for his twin. He needed them _both_ on his side. He had faced that fact long ago. As an important piece of the puzzle, he required Murphy's assistance, his extra hand for him to control, and he wouldn't acquire it if he so vigilantly chained himself to Connor and challenged him on everything.

Every intimate moment Murphy and Connor spent together only weakened Eric's grip on them, as he was sure that Murphy used that closeness to his advantage to keep him further from him, as well as his plots. He knew there was no way he could ask them to "stop having sex," but there was a line he had to draw between them, a line Murphy wouldn't cross. What that line was, Eric had yet to discover. He couldn't threaten Connor's life—didn't _want_ to threaten Connor's life—since it would only raise the hairs on the back of Murphy's already sensitive neck.

"Take off your shirt, Murphy," Eric instructed, preparing the microphone. Murphy spent a moment glaring at him, but eventually did as he was told. When Eric approached him with the microphone and tape, he allowed it, but scrunched up his nose like he smelled something foul. It might not have been the best time, but Eric snickered. Murphy's lip twitched.

"De fuck's so funny?"

"Not a hair on you, is there?"

"Fuck you."

"Do you kiss your brother with that mouth? Never mind. I know the answer to that."

Murphy said nothing this time, since Connor placed a hand on his shoulder. Once the wire was firmly attached, he asked Murphy to slip his shirt back on, which he did. Once the task was complete, he started packing up the tools he'd need for the job, including the cleaning supplies, and offered the brothers a drink before they left. They shared one with him, but Murphy never took his eyes off of Eric's face while downing his shot.

In the time it took for them to go to the house of David Summers, their target, Connor worried. He didn't want Murphy going in that house by himself, and at the same time, understood that Eric knew best. Murphy would be wired, and they'd be able to hear from inside the van if he was in danger, but it wasn't enough to comfort him. What if he couldn't reach him in time if he heard something?

The stress was too much for him, and he couldn't calm the rise and fall of waves in his stomach as they reached the house. "I t'ink I should go in wit' 'im."

If it was one thing Eric learned from speaking with Connor and Murphy, it was how to speak to them, and what to say that would get the response he was looking for. "Do you not have faith in Murphy's abilities?"

"Dat's… not it. I believe he can do it, I just…"

Murphy placed his hand on Connor's knee, and Connor stared for a moment into his brother's bluish eyes. "_Beidh mé ceart go leor_. (I'll be okay)

"_Ba mhaith liom é seo a dhéanamh. _(I want to do this)

"_Tá mé ag dul chun a fháil amach cad atá sé ag dul i bhfolach_. (I'm going to find out what he's hiding)

"_Tá a fhios agam go mbainfidh tú a bheith ag lorg amach dom_." (I know you'll be looking out for me)

Connor nodded at him. "Aye," he whispered. "_I gcónaí._" (Always)

Before that point, Eric had no idea that the two of them were multi-lingual, but now that the facts had surfaced, it unsettled him. They could have conversations around him without him understanding a word, and for all he knew, they just told each other something valuable, or incriminating.

Not wanting them to get another word out that he couldn't distinguish, he interrupted their "moment." "All right, Murphy. Here's what you'll do. Once you enter the house, there's a hallway. The first door on the right is a study. Our target always stops by that room first. You're going to hide in that room until he comes in. You'll be waiting for at least thirty minutes before he comes home. The far right corner is the best place to hide, behind the desk and the potted plant. You should be able to get a clear shot from there."

Eric tested the microphone, making sure the sound was clear enough through the headphones attached to the radio within the van. Everything was ready to go, all except Eric, who wondered now how this would play out. Perhaps things would go according to plan regardless of how they had set the stage, but only time would tell.

Murphy slid the door open and prepared to hop out, but Connor called him back for a moment. Murphy leaned inside to give Connor a deep, elongated kiss before telling him he'd see him soon. Connor couldn't help but feel overwhelming dread at his departure, as though he were about to travel overseas to fight in a brutal war, despite him being no more than several yards away. Regardless, he allowed him to leave, wishing him luck.

Murphy slipped into the house through the front door, which was for some reason unlocked. That was only the first bad sign. He shut the door behind him before going down the hallway that Eric mentioned, finding the first door on the right. When grabbing the handle, he realized that it was locked when it wouldn't turn. He jiggled it a few times, but no dice.

"De fuckin' door's locked," he told Connor through the microphone. "De one to de study."

Connor, hearing this over the headphones, peered at Eric in his peripheral vision. He wanted to ask him about it, but he also didn't want him to know. Something about this didn't add up, and he'd rather get all of his ducks in a row before pointing fingers.

"I'm gonna check out de bat'room," Murphy said next, then went on a hunt for the restroom, opening a few more doors down the hall. He cracked open the final door on the left, and reached inside to flip the light switch on. What he anticipated to see was what any lavatory had: a toilet, tub, sink, mirror—but something else lied in wait for him inside, something not commonly found in bathrooms, and that something was thigh-high, four-legged, and covered in brown and black-sable fur.

The German Shepherd's head lifted the instant Murphy opened the door, but it was the beacon of light that startled the both of them. Murphy had encountered many dogs in the past, and he thought he made a good companion to them. He believed this encounter to be no different; that is until he heard the deep rattle of the canine's growl and saw its glinting fangs as its maw curled, and before Murphy's brain could even register a reaction, it had lunged for him.

Murphy bolted out into the hallway, and the mountainous dog careened out of the room, its thunderous paws slamming on the floor, its claws clicking on the wood. He sprinted for the living room, toppling tables over to slow the animal down. The beast of a dog only leapt over them, chasing him down, barking all the way. His destination was now the sliding glass door leading to the back step at the rear of the house. He jerked on it to open it, only to find it locked, unlike the front door. He didn't get the opportunity to turn around and look into the eyes of his attacker before he was leapt upon and brought to the ground by the fabric of his shirt.

"_Fuck!_" he screamed, though it wasn't the first word he thought of. He tried to shove the dog off of him, only to get his arm snapped at. "_CONNOR!_" he called at last when his breath could manage it. He drew his gun, getting ready to shoot in case his brother didn't reach him in time, and shooting the dog was the last resort.

Connor chucked the headphones away from his ears and rocketed out of the van quicker than Eric could call him back, not that doing so would make him change course. Free from the stifling vehicle, Connor blazed into the house, nearly kicking the door down, his gun raised while clenched in both hands. He followed the sounds of the scuffle to the living room, where he saw the dog nipping and snarling at Murphy, who was doing his best to shove it off of him. Blood snaked down Murphy's forearm, the tail of his shirt ripped clean.

"Ay!" Connor called to the aggressive mutt, whose nose turned toward Connor. Connor puckered his lips and whistled to it. No longer focused on Murphy, the dog then charged at him, both rows of teeth showing, its voice rumbling in a snarl. Connor ducked down the hallway, entering the first room he saw, the German Shepherd rushing in after him. When they were both inside, he circled around the canine and fled the room, slamming the door behind him, trapping it inside. The dog continued to bark and scrape at the door as Connor raced back to Murphy, who staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding arm.

The moment he reached him, he looked over the gash on his forearm before taking his face in his hands, which by now was pretty pale. "Are you all 'ight?"

"Y-yeh…" Murphy muttered, dazed and lightheaded.

"I'm taking you back to de van. Eric can do dis one himself."

Remembering he still had the wire on, Murphy switched languages. "_Bhunaigh sé mé suas._" (He set me up)

Connor's brow furrowed. He sensed the same feeling, but he wanted facts before condemning anyone. "_Ní féidir linn a bheith cinnte_." (We can not be sure)

"_Connor…_" Murphy said, on the edge of a whisper. "_Tá mé cinnte_. (I am sure)

"_Cuireadh faoi ghlas an doras_. (The door was locked)

"_Bhí a fhios aige mar gheall ar an madra_." (He knew about the dog)

Connor sighed and rubbed his brow, which was throbbing. "_Níl a fhios againn an fhírinne_." (We do not know the truth)

Murphy hoped Connor would listen to his warning, but at his defense, he scowled. Connor had never chosen a side opposed of him before. "Right," he snarled.

"Come on, before ya fuckin' bleed to death." Connor put his arm around him, but Murphy shrugged it off as he stormed out the front door, Connor in tow. Eric jumped out of the van, staring at Murphy's gushing forearm.

"So…" he started, wrapping his arms around his chest. "What happened?"

"Ya fuckin' know what happened!" declared Murphy as Connor tried to get him into the safety of the vehicle, and to prevent him from blowing their cover by making a scene.

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Murphy."

Murphy punched a strong index finger outward, aiming it at Eric's face like a pistol. "I'm onto you. Ya t'ink yer so fuckin' clever, schmoozin' up to my bro'ter, kissin' his ass. I'm not stupid."

"I take it you're not going to explain."

"Dere was a dog inside," Connor told him, only to receive a jab of the elbow from Murphy. "_Ow._"

"A dog. It attacked you?"

"What d'ya fuckin' t'ink? Ya see de fuckin' blood on meh?!"

Connor once again scrutinized the wound. "We should pro'lly take ya to de hospital."

Eric's tone and stance stiffened. "No! No hospitals. You'll have to cauterize." Connor squinted, and Eric read it as confusion. "I'll teach you. For now, get a bandage on it. There's a kit in the truck, in the glove box. You two sit this out. I'll handle it." With a disappointed shake of the head and a condescending sigh, he strolled into the house.

Meanwhile, Murphy ripped the taped microphone from his chest, wincing at the sting it fashioned as Connor searched for the first aid kit. As he wrapped Murphy's arm in a tight bandage, he felt his brother's eyes burning through him.

"Ya see what he's doin'? He made it so we'd rely on 'im. He knows dat now you'll never let me go into ano'ter house by myself after dis."

"I know how it looks," explicated Connor as he tended to his injury. "But ya need to watch yerself, ya know dat? If ya really t'ink he's lyin' to us, ya can't just confront 'im like dat."

"Oh, m'sorry, Connor. Fergot ya were de fuckin' brains of de operation." He grunted in agony as Connor tightened the bandage on his arm.

They dropped it for now, as Murphy was too exhausted and in too much pain to deal with it for the moment. The discussion, however, would be left for a later time.

It took another fifteen minutes for the owner of the house to arrive, and Connor and Murphy watched the scene from the van, which sat on the opposite end of the street. The act ended as abruptly as it began, and though they weren't present to witness their target meeting their maker, they knew it had happened when Eric exited the house from the same place he entered.

Eric popped the back doors of the van open to collect his bag and sheets of plastic and tape. "Well," he told them both, though he directed Connor. "Come and do your thing."

Despite loathing that he called it "their thing," they took to it as their civil duty once it was addressed, leaving the vehicle and reentering the house together as one dark entity to tend to the deceased like preordained morticians.

Connor was the first to kneel beside the dead man, whose nose was still leaking blood, whose gaping bullet hole was still smoking. When Connor recited the mantra, the prayer of their father, Murphy refused to join along, but encircled the corpse like a shark while his brother spoke over it. When Connor finished with their family's words, he reached into his pocket and fished out a handful of change, picking a couple of pennies from the pile while Eric stood idle nearby, watching the spectacle. He passed the copper to his brother who then kneeled on the opposite side of the deceased.

Placing a penny on top of one closed eyelid, then the other, Murphy was the one who finished the bizarre ritual, leaving Eric befuddled, but it didn't much matter either way. Soon the man would be disemboweled. If he were going to leave the body there, he'd have his objections to their leaving evidence behind.

"What's with the pennies?" questioned Eric out of curiosity.

"Tradition." Of course, it was more complicated than that, but Connor didn't expect a man like Eric to understand if he explained it to him. He thought he heard him utter "whatever" under his breath, but neither of them instigated.

"So," Murphy said after clearing his throat. "What'd ya do wit' de dog?"

Eric, while unraveling the plastic sheet, responded with: "It'll live."

Murphy already had a hard enough time understanding if he was serious or sarcastic, but that answer was by far the hardest to read. While he did want to know the true answer, he decided against pushing for information, because he also didn't wish to hear it.

Once the scene was cleaned up, the body loaded in the van, and everything set up for disposal, Eric brought them back to his own house, taking them into the bathroom, asking Murphy to climb into the tub. He did, but objected to being alone in the room with him. Eric was fine with this, since he wanted to educate Connor as well.

"Go ahead and take the bandage off of your arm," Eric commanded before stepping out of the room.

Resting on one knee beside the tub where Murphy sat, Connor took a hold of his arm and unwrapped it like a macabre birthday gift, and blood immediately dripped down his skin, which had soaked through most of the bandage at this point. When Connor asked if it hurt, he shook his head, but he knew that whatever Eric planned, it was not going to be a pleasant remedy.

When Eric returned, he had an iron in his hand, which he plugged into the outlet on the wall and switched on. While waiting for it to warm up, he looked upon each of the darkened faces of the MacManus twins. He didn't ask why they stared at him like that, but he recognized the expression as one of doubt and speculation. There were no answers he could give them that would not incriminate him. Sometimes it was best to keep your mouth shut.

Once the iron was heated up, Eric waved for Connor to come near. He did so. "Seeing as how Murphy isn't one to enjoy my proximity," he opened with in amusement, "I'm going to be asking you to take care of it. You're going to take the iron and press it against Murphy's wound."

"_What?!_" laughed Murphy.

"Ya want me to do dat to my bro'ter?" Connor asked, incredulous.

"If you want to stop him from bleeding, yes."

"But… I… ya want me to _burn_ his arm?"

"_Yes,_ Connor." With a casual point of the finger, he nodded toward Murphy, who could only stare at them with a gaping mouth. "You'd better hurry before he bleeds to death."

"Connor," whimpered Murphy. "Yer not seriously t'inkin' of…"

"You can't fucking tell me you two have never heard of cauterizing. It stops the blood flow. Unless you two want to take the time to find tools for stitching and learn how to do it in less than twenty minutes, be my guest. Otherwise, you're going to have to do it this way."

"I dunno," Connor said, suddenly feeling very weak. "I dunno if I can do dat."

"Murphy, would you rather have me touch you, or bleed to death?"

"Bleed to death," Murphy answered without hesitation, his upper lip raised.

"You're going to have to man up and do it, Connor, or Murphy will have to do it to himself."

"I couldn't do it to myself," Murphy said with a sigh. "Connor… it's okay." He waved him over, closing his eyes and holding his gushing arm outward. Connor looked from his injured brother to the steaming iron in his hand, then swallowed the wad of saliva that had collected in his mouth before sitting back down beside his trembling other half.

Eric handed Connor a rolled towel to pass to Murphy, telling him to bite onto it. Murphy feared the implications—that it would hurt bad enough for him to bite down that hard. He slipped the towel into his mouth and clamped his teeth onto it, squinting, then nodded to the sweating, shaking Connor. Connor took a few deep breaths, gearing himself up for what he considered a form of imminent torture, then forced the troubling thought from his mind as he shoved the searing hot metal to the surface of Murphy's reddened skin.

Of all of the sounds Connor had heard in his lifetime, none pierced his ears with worse pain than the sound of Murphy's shrieks of agony. The high-pitched wail accompanied with the gentle sound of his whimpering made it feel as though he was killing Murphy with his bare hands in the most excruciating method possible. When he removed the burning steel from his arm, Murphy grabbed his sensitive arm and pulled it away from danger as his eyes leaked.

Connor passed the iron back to Eric, who looked at the job he had done on Murphy's injury. He nodded to him to show he had done it correctly, then carried the iron out of the room. For a moment, Connor and Murphy didn't speak to each other. The only sound was that of Murphy's light sobbing.

All Connor could think to do at that point in time was grab Murphy and yank him close to his chest, cradling his head against the base of his neck and collarbone while stroking the thin follicles of his short hair. He apologized to him so many times that the words started to lose their meaning after several repetitions. The many kisses he planted all around his head seemed to calm him, however. If he had been in Murphy's position, he might not have been as courageous. The thought of being burned anywhere, even just from a bit of stray ash from the cherry of his cigarette, was horrifying enough in itself. Having to deliver such pain to Murphy tore his soul to ragged shards.

Murphy could hardly speak, as his voice was hardly recognizable with how strained it had become. Connor's affection provided only temporary relief from the pounding, throbbing and persistent sizzling on his skin, but relief it did bring him. He and Connor had been at each other's throats many times in the past—fought over trivial things, called each other foolish names, played childish jokes on one another—but Connor had never felt so ripped through from Murphy's anguish as he felt in that moment. For every one of the tears he felt splash against his neck as he cried against it, identical ones sprung up in Connor's eyes. He hoped, prayed, begged of the highest powers that he would never have to cause him such grief a second time.

Perhaps, Connor felt, risks were involved in their line of work, and they had to take them, whether they liked it or not. On the other hand, Murphy would not be in so much pain now if he had insisted to enter the house alongside him. Though Eric might have been the true one at fault, it was only himself that he blamed for the misery his brother now lied in. If he had just _pressed_ the matter… if he had put his foot down… maybe…

"I'm so sorry," he said for about the fiftieth time, though now laden with great mourning.

"S'not yer fault." These were the first words Murphy managed to get out since being forced through the sensation of his skin cooking.

"If I… I had…"

"Shut up," Murphy sighed. "I'll be all 'ight."

"Maybe we should… reconsider… this whole…"

"Connor… I'm okay."

Connor's response was to clasp Murphy's head against him once more. Murphy wrapped his good arm around his neck, comforting both Connor and himself. When Connor mashed his perspiring forehead against his brother's, he was consoled with a kiss to the mouth. This only rent Connor's heart further.

Eric had reappeared a while ago, but he didn't interrupt them, knowing it would only exacerbate Murphy's abhorrence. When he did reveal himself to them again, he brandished a tube of ointment, which he passed down to Connor. "Should help with the burn. It'll stop infections, too."

Connor found thanking him difficult. His primary concern was tending to Murphy and making him feel better. Eric vacated the room, leaving them alone once again. Connor went right to work applying the gooey stuff to Murphy's burn, which he hissed and grunted at, and Connor apologized profusely for.

When Connor next had the chance to speak, he said, "You're gonna have quite de nasty scar."

"Yeh… too bad. I liked de way my arm looked."

"You could always put a tattoo over it."

Murphy scoffed. "Dat'd look fuckin' stupid."

"Not if I got one, too. Den I'd just tell people ya copied meh." When Murphy smiled at this, enamored with his creativity, Connor mirrored his adorable grin.

"Guess dat'd be okay." He cooed when Connor stroked him on the back of the neck. He missed that, a lot.

Eric provided Murphy with a new set of bandages to help cover the gash while it healed, and asked whether or not they wanted to go home. Connor was open to the idea, but Murphy resented it. He told Connor he wanted to go home—to _their_ home, no matter how poor it was. He was still a lot more comfortable there than he was anywhere near Eric Malone.

As requested, Eric took them home before carrying on with his job. While taking a warm shower with Connor, Murphy reviewed the events of that afternoon. Not only did the encounter with the dog disturb him, but something else nagged at his mind. He remembered Eric mentioning that their target was married. While inside that house, he never saw a single indication that it had been true. There were no wedding photos; the bedroom contained a bed large enough only for one person; the toilet seat was up; nothing at all pointed it to being a marital home.

He wouldn't tell his brother, but he intended to call in sick to work the following day, for he had some scouting of his own to do.


	8. Chapter 8

Murphy could not grow accustomed to changing the bandages wrapped around his burn, for every time he removed one, he was reminded of when Connor baked his skin with an iron. When peeling off the first one of the day, he thought he'd see nothing but black underneath, but was relieved to see only bright redness and blistering. It could have been a lot worse.

When he told Connor he'd like to stay home and heal that day, Connor understood, though he told him he'd miss him, which was nice to hear after the aching he woke up to. He would miss Connor as well, and he didn't approve of being disingenuous— especially with him— but if justice was to be had, he would take it into his own hands, in his own way.

It had been at least a couple of weeks since either of them had spoken to Rocco, and when he called him up, he expected a scornful greeting, begrudging them and their avoidance, but what he got instead was cheerful delight.

"I thought you guys might have, I don't know, died or something," he told him with laughter etching his voice.

Murphy found it difficult to argue. In a way, he felt like he did. "Nah. Still here, man. Still breathin' anyway. Listen, I need to ask ya a favor."

If it had been one thing Murphy kept in mind about Rocco, it was how much he hated the word "favor." To him, that meant doing a job and not getting paid for it, regardless of his kinship with the party involved. Rocco's attitude was no different here. "Uh… where's Connor?"

"At work. Come on, man, I need ya here."

"Now hold on. I didn't say 'no' just yet. But, you have to know how fucked up this is. You guys have spent all of your time together since shacking up—"

"Since we _what?_" replied Murphy with a choking gasp.

Rocco clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Murph… you heard me. Don't play dumb. That's my fuckin' job."

"I…" He didn't waste time arguing. Whatever Rocco implied, it was the truth. "All 'ight."

Rocco's impatience slipped away when Murphy acknowledged his guilt. "You going to tell me about that?"

"Now's not a good time."

"But it's true?"

"I'm not— I won't— I don't wanna talk about it, okay? I will later, but right now…"

A hearty chuckle coursed down the phone line. "You called _me_, and you don't want to talk. Okay. Whatever. What did you need, Murphy?"

Grateful that he had moved on from the subject, he got to the point. "I need ya to drive meh somewhere. Someone's house. I need to sort of… watch it for a while." During the pause that followed, he hoped Rocco didn't hang up on him.

"You need to stalk somebody?" replied Rocco with his usual sarcastic wit.

"No!" He scratched his head as he thought of the best way to explain without telling him his and Connor's story. It was tougher than he imagined. "Just de house. I need to watch it."

"You want me to drive you to a house so you can stare at it for a while? Murphy, no offense, but, _what the fuck?_"

"Roc, believe meh, I wish I could tell ya. I can't."

"What the hell have you and Connor been up to?!"

"Are ya gonna help meh, or not?"

A deep, agitated sigh, then: "I will. If you tell me the truth."

"About what…?"

"You and your brother."

When coming to this bizarre crossroads, Murphy was ambivalent. He did need a ride to the house, but the cost was too high, in his opinion. He didn't want to deny anything, but also didn't want to admit anything, even if their friend was correct in his suspicions. Rocco was a good companion to them— almost like family— and losing him would be too hard on the both of them. However, he seemed to already speculate what went on, and he still hadn't hung up on him, or disappeared completely.

Why did he need to know, anyway? What business was it of his what he and Connor did when the doors were closed and the curtains were drawn? Murphy didn't feel they owed Rocco an explanation of any kind. Did it really matter that they felt the way they did?

At long last, Murphy decided that if Rocco was a true friend, he would stick around no matter what he found out. "Ya really wanna know?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

"If I tell ya… ya can't be a bastard about it, okay?"

"Just fucking say it, Murph."

"Fine," he sighed, closing his eyes in the same way he did before anticipating the sting of the blazing iron to his skin, clenching and grinding his molars. "We… had sex."

"_I KNEW IT!_" His thick voice erupted into long, drawn out roars of immense cackles. Murphy cast a glare at him over the line, despite his not being able to visualize it. He thought he heard him slap his knee a few times. "Oh, God, Murph. Oh _God._" More laughter. Murphy debated hanging up the phone then. "Are you fucking _kidding me?_"

"No."

"How many times?"

Though Rocco had already been exposed to the evidence, Murphy hesitated revealing this tidbit to him. "A… few."

"How many is a _few?_"

He sighed. "A lot."

An uncomfortable pregnant pause phased between them, then Rocco lapsed into another fit of caws and hollers. "Oh dude, that is _whacked!_ You know that?"

"Okay, now ya know, would ya shut de fuck up and help me, asshole?!"

"Hey, relax, okay? I'm sorry. It's just really funny."

"Well, it's not funny to meh."

Rocco killed the nitrous, and his humor dimmed. Unlike earlier, his tone was now civil. "Is it like… a serious thing you guys have, or…?"

Murphy had never asked himself this question. What exactly did he and Connor have together? It was more than brotherhood, and they were a lot more than drinking partners, but he never thought to give it a label until now. "I… I dunno. I guess."

"Wow… I…" A few jagged breaths followed, then a cough or two. "Um… _yeah_, so anyway, I'll be over in a minute."

Murphy hoped to high heaven that meant he would pretend the conversation never happened. "_T'ank you._"

Though he was uneasy at Rocco's lack of farewell when the line went dead, Murphy knew he was true to his word. He didn't want Rocco in danger, but would enjoy his company during his obscure adventure.

Rocco made a pit stop at the coffee shop before dropping by to pick him up, and Murphy was disappointed that he didn't get him anything. Coffee was something he thought he would need on this little trip, as he wasn't much of a breakfast eater and could use the energy.

When Murphy climbed into the passenger seat of the car, Rocco ogled his layers of bandage. "What the hell happened to your arm?" he asked, considering for a moment that he might not want to know the answer.

"Accident at work," sighed Murphy. It wasn't exactly a lie. "Dat's why I'm home today."

Rocco didn't pose any other questions, despite his inclining curiosity. He followed each of the directions that Murphy gave him, heading in the direction of the Summers house. "So," he struck up when they had reached a silent point. "Does Connor know you're doing this?"

"No. If it turns out to be no'tin'… and I hope it does… I won't have to tell him any'tin'."

"If _what_ turns out to be nothing?"

"Sorry, Roc. Ya just gotta trust meh when I say I can't tell ya."

"Murphy…" Rocco groaned, pulling some of his long hair back as he kept his eyes on the road. "Why do I get the feeling you and Connor are in some kind of trouble?"

After dragging a hand across his mouth, he mumbled, "Not in trouble. Not yet."

He prodded his inner cheek with his tongue, looking to and from the road and Murphy. There was something he wanted to say, that he _needed_ to say, but the elephant hanging out in the backseat was way too large, and never took its eyes off of them. Murphy passed the awkward time by smoking a cigarette, and Rocco turned on the radio, blared the volume, and avoided eye contact with his friend.

Arriving at their destination, Rocco pulled over to the curb where Murphy asked him to and parked. For the first time in several minutes, Rocco looked at him. "Now what?"

Murphy's answer was on the dry side. "We wait."

"For?"

"Someone to come home. If no one does… den I know."

Annoyed at his cryptic phrases, Rocco yelled, "What is going on?!" Murphy hushed him, and Rocco could only stare in disbelief. Then, nothing more was said on the matter.

Half an hour passed of complete and total silence, and Murphy's eyes never left the Summers house. No one came to the house, and no one left it at any point, but he didn't expect anything after only thirty minutes.

"Murph… this is really fucking boring, man."

He dropped his face into his sweating palm. "I know."

"I would have just let you borrow my car, you know. I could be at home… sleeping, or something."

"I like yer company."

A chill ran up Rocco's spine, and he leaned further toward the window and away from his companion. He waited another few moments before forcing out the following words: "You and Connor…" Murphy shut his eyes in humiliation. "You guys aren't into the whole… you know… _group_ thing, are you?"

Puzzled, and embarrassed, he asked, "_Group_ t'ing?"

"Like… you don't do threesomes, or anything."

"What de fuck are ya askin' me dat for?!"

"I'm just asking! Because, you know… I'm not into that."

"Fer fuck's sake, Roc. I love ya, but I don't love ya dat much."

"Good. 'Cause… I'm not gay."

Murphy hoped he heard the sarcasm in his next statement. "Course not. Goes wit'out sayin'." After this surreal conversation between them, Rocco became more relaxed around him, and finally dropped the subject.

Hours lagged by, and Rocco ended up passing out from boredom. Murphy, on the other hand, had never been more alert or focused in his life. Unfortunately, his cigarettes didn't last the day, but they helped when they were available. For the entire afternoon, he never saw anyone come to the house, leave the house, or even go anywhere near it, save for the mail carrier.

Once the mail was delivered, Murphy thought it his golden ticket. He hopped out of the car, slinking across the street, and opened the plastic mailbox, removing the stack of envelopes and flipping through them. All of the mail was addressed to Mister Summers, and none were made out to any other name. As strange as it was, Murphy didn't think it concrete enough. The trash bin standing at the end of the driveway might give him more than what he needed.

Grabbing the trashcan by the handle, Murphy dragged it up the drive, taking it to the side of the house where he wouldn't be seen. He popped the top off and ripped open the bag inside, then started digging inside of the treasure trove of personal information. All discarded envelopes were made out to David Summers and no one else; many receipts were for fast food restaurants and cheap diners and hardly any groceries; lastly, near the bottom rested a badly moisture-damaged pornographic magazine. Murphy didn't require much more proof.

Despite what Eric Malone claimed, David Summers was not married.

_Why would he lie to us about that?_ wondered Murphy as he stuffed everything back into the bin. One possible reason, he figured, was to tug on their heartstrings. What was worse than a man who raped and murdered prostitutes? A married man that raped and murdered prostitutes. Eric knew they were Catholic, knew that they were against any and all blasphemies, but combining two at the same time would have strengthened their desire to kill.

Eric had little idea, however, that he _had_ summoned such a desire in him. That desire was reserved for the very creature responsible for the atrocities, and David Summers had not been guilty.

Fueled with rage, the burn of betrayal and deceit, Murphy rushed back to the car with his heart singeing. Connor had to know. He had to know the truth. Eric Malone would not get away with this.

When he slammed the door, Rocco's limbs scattered, accompanied with a terrified gasp. "Dude! What the—"

"Take meh home, Roc. Connor and I have to talk."

During Murphy's eventful afternoon, Connor had trouble concentrating at work. Without Murphy there to compete with, his tempo slacked, as did his mood. Come break time, he stepped outside for a smoke, thinking of calling Murphy at home to check up on him, but his thoughts were soon interrupted by an unexpected visit from Eric, who came bearing coffee and a donut for him.

"Wow," Connor chuckled with gratitude. "T'anks."

Giving him a warm pat on the shoulder, Eric chimed, "You're very welcome, Connor." He scanned the doorway and the space around the back of the building. "Where's your brother?"

"Home," said Connor with his mouth full of fried bread. "His arm hurt too much."

Panic washed over Eric's face, his expression hardening. Connor stopped chewing at the sight of it, fearing the shadows that sprouted on his features. "Is that so?"

"A-aye…"

"Have you called him today?"

"No. Was goin' to, but figured he pro'lly needed de rest."

Eric, while wiping sweat from his brow, stuttered, "Maybe you should. That dog bite looked pretty nasty. Could get infected."

Connor's throat clenched and he sipped on some coffee to wash down the chunk of donut that slipped down. "Like… how bad we talkin'?"

"A wound that size? Pretty bad."

Connor passed his half-empty cup of coffee to Eric, asking him to hold it for him while he went inside to use the phone. Eric waited, his toes going numb, his spine chilling. If Murphy had not been home, he had a lot more to worry about than Connor's devotion. Anything Murphy did now worried him.

When Connor returned, he shrugged at him. "S'weird. He's not answerin'. I asked my boss if I could head home early. He said I could."

"Great. I'll drive you."

Eric's insistence disturbed Connor's skin, drawing forth goose bumps. "S'all 'ight. I can walk."

"Don't be silly. It's no trouble to drive you. Besides, the faster you reach Murphy, the better, right?"

He didn't like where this was headed. Eric seemed a little too eager, and with eagerness came desperation. "Aye…" Knowing if he turned him down, things might only get worse, so he agreed to take his offer. "Appreciate it." A sour flavor entered his mouth, which he swallowed.

Eric led him to his vehicle, which Connor hopped into, and during their journey, Eric seemed unconcerned with speed limit laws, or with the fear that hammered at Connor's nerves of an imminent accident.

"C-c-could ya slow down?" He also grinned to show he didn't intend to instigate.

Eric answered, "You're not concerned about him?" His smarmy tone didn't help matters.

"I… I am… but I'm also concerned about dyin' before I reach 'im."

For the remainder of the drive, Eric said nothing more to him, trying not to upset him any further. The moment Eric pulled up to the shoddy apartment building, Connor jumped out of the car. He turned back toward Eric when he saw him also stepping out. "You should pro'lly stay here," Connor warned. "I t'ink seein' ya will only make 'im feel worse."

Eric wasn't too keen on the idea of leaving Connor and Murphy alone together to speak behind his back, but he knew that he was right. He had to trust that Connor would open up to him later. "Fine. Let me know if you need anything."

Following a short nod, Connor jogged inside and rode the lift up to their floor. The second he pushed the door open, Murphy sat up from the bed he was lying on, and presented a weary smile.

"Yer home early," he said with mixed relief and nervousness. Connor sighed and closed his eyes.

"I called. Where were ya?"

Leaping off the bed, Murphy strolled over to him and lowered his voice, though he didn't need to. "I just got home a few minutes ago. I have to tell ya some'tin'." Connor waited, his ears tuned to his soft words. "I went to de house today. De one wit' de dog. Do you remember when Malone told us de guy was married?" Connor's eyelids had almost clamped together by this point. "Well he's fuckin' not. I looked t'rough his stuff, his mailbox and trash and t'ings. When I was inside de house, I didn't see any'tin' dat implied it."

An index finger crossed Connor's brow as he scratched it. "Ya went back dere?"

"Yeh. I just told ya dat."

"What de fuck were ya t'inkin'? What if dere were cops crawlin' around de place?!"

Exasperated, Murphy's jaw fell and nose scrunched. "Did ya hear any'tin' I just fuckin' said to ya?!"

Connor scratched his brow again, and he could taste Murphy's incubating impatience. "I heard ya, Murph."

This was not the way Murphy expected the conversation to go. "And?!"

"So ya rooted around in someone's bin all afternoon, and suddenly ya know de guy?"

Murphy put his foot down. "Connor! Malone's lyin' to us! I don't t'ink dat Summers guy did any of de t'ings Malone said he did! He told us dat shit to make us wanna kill 'im!"

Incredulous laughter seeped from Connor's tight mouth, and Murphy's eyes burned. "Ya can't be fer real, Murph. He pro'lly made a mistake when he t'ought de fella was married."

"_Seriously?!_ Yer not dis stupid! I _know_ ya aren't! What's he fuckin' done to ya?! Yer so fuckin' blinded by his transparent charms dat ya don't see de smokin' mirror he's wavin' at ya!"

Connor raised his palms to signal to his brother to calm himself. Murphy panted and paced the room as he shook his head. "Hold on. Let's talk about you fer a second. Ever since Eric and I started chattin', you've been gettin' angrier. I know what jealousy looks like." He pointed at Murphy.

"Ya t'ink I did dis because I was jealous?!" No other words could express just how surprised he was at Connor's accusations. "Maybe yer just fuckin' t'ick in the head! I'm tryin' to help! I'm yer fuckin' bro'ter! I'm… I'm _more _den dat! And yer takin' _his side?!_"

"Dere are no sides! Dat's what I'm tryin' to tell ya! Yer _creatin'_ sides! Yer de one forcin' me to choose one, not Eric!"

Fighting back the waterfalls threatening to rush from his eyes, Murphy bit down on his lip and cheeks. "Connor, we were born toge'ter. We grew up toge'ter, we live toge'ter, we do…" For a brief moment, his eyes closed. "Literally every'tin' toge'ter. We will pro'lly die toge'ter, at least I hope we will. I… I'd never give my life for anyone else but you. Connor… you can't tell me dat ya believe dat sack o'shit over meh. Because if ya did… it means dat after every'tin', I mean no'tin' to ya."

"Don't. Don't even blame meh fer dis. Eric made a mistake and now ya wanna…" He stopped, laughed, then tossed his hands into the air. "Fuck, I don't even know what ya wanna do!"

"A _mistake?!_ He's been doin' dis fer years! It wasn't a mistake! He lied, and yer a fuckin' eejit!"

"_Fuck you!_"

Murphy shook his head, smiling despite the tears. "Not anymore. Ya go run off to 'im if dat's what ya wanna do. Ya clearly like 'im more den meh, anyway. Just don't come runnin' back to meh if he tries to kill ya. I love ya more den any'tin'… but yer on yer fuckin' own now, bro."

Connor couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had never been "broken up" with before, but this is how it always looked in the movies, and it crushed him from the inside out. "Murph…"

"Just get de fuck outta here. Go back to yer little boyfriend." When Connor didn't leave, Murphy stomped toward him, shoving him out the door. "_GO!_" He slammed it in his face, and the wood cracked as it collided with the frame. Connor didn't leave just yet. He stood by the broken door, listening to the sound of his brother weeping.

"M'sorry, Murph," Connor whispered through the door. Murphy only carried on with his sobbing. Knowing he wouldn't be granted access to their apartment for the rest of the night, he took the lift back downstairs.

Eric saw the dejected young man shuffling toward his car and vacated the driver's seat with a perplexed expression. "Everything okay?"

He didn't give him an answer. Of all of the fights he had with Murphy over the years, none tore him to pieces as much as this did. He entered the vehicle, head low, eyes turned away, and he chewed on one of his fingernails in distress. Eric slid back in and shut the door, turning toward Connor.

"What happened?"

"We uh… we…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. Though it just occurred, it didn't make sense. The words "broke up" sounded so cinematic and overplayed in his mind, but they were the correct ones to use. Brothers didn't "break up." They also didn't do half the things he and Murphy did together. Unable to continue the thought, he clasped his face, mourning the death of his relationship.

"Oh, Connor…" Eric said while using his most affluent of replicated empathetic voices. "I'm sorry. Why don't you come back to my place and we can talk about it over some shots?" He gave him a fatherly pat to the back. With a wet sniffle, Connor nodded.

The drive to Eric's house seemed so much longer with how busy Connor's thoughts were. All he could think of was the look of hurt on Murphy's face and the sound of his betrayed voice. He didn't mean to hurt him. Never did, even when he joked around with him. Hurting Murphy was the last thing he'd ever want to do, even beyond murder. He loved nothing more, cared for nothing more than his brother, and he walked out on him. How could he do such a thing to someone he loved?

He went straight to the bar in the basement as soon as they arrived, and Eric followed him down, obtaining a glass from the cupboard. While standing behind the bar, he mixed a drink for Connor while he slumped over the bar top, silent and bereaved. He took the full glass from Eric and twisted it around in circles on the surface of the wood, keeping himself from breaking down.

"Did you two fight about something?" pried Eric, hunting for input.

"Aye," whimpered Connor.

"Well? Talk to me. Tell me about it."

"We fought about you."

_Bingo,_ thought Eric, getting closer to the jackpot he craved. "Me? What about me?" Connor moaned, resting his forehead upon the bar's surface. He didn't wish to relive the conversation. Eric sighed, but kept a nurturing attitude. "Connor… I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Did he even wish to discuss it at this point? All he wanted was company and booze. Still, he knew that if anyone could help, it was Eric. "He's just jealous of ya."

It wasn't his style, but Eric cackled at that. It only seemed to depress Connor more. "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "Jealous? Because you and I are friends?" Connor nodded, his facial features bunching up at the seams into another look of teary-eyed sadness. "Ah. I see. Come on, don't cry. It's all right."

How could he even say that? "It isn't." He took a sip of his drink, smacking his lips a few times. "We've never been like dis before. Not dis bad. Especially sober."

"What makes you think he's jealous of me? Did he tell you he was?"

"In so many words…" Another sip. He felt an odd tickle on his tongue and dragged it across his teeth to scratch it. "He doesn't trust ya. Tried to claim ya lied to us."

"Lied," repeated Eric, and the word echoed inside of Connor's ears. "About what?"

Connor sighed, still uncertain if telling Eric would help or hurt the situation. He wanted Murphy back, but he also wanted to know the truth. Confronting Eric might not get the best results. "He t'inks ya told us some'tin' about the most recent hit dat wasn't true, is all."

"And that was?"

"About his marital status. He t'inks he wasn't married."

Eric leaned over the bar, closer to Connor's face. He pulled back an inch or two. "What do _you_ believe?"

"I…" Did he even know anymore? He wanted to believe Murphy, but knew things weren't that simple. "I believe ya just made a mistake. I tried to tell him dat, and…"

"And he didn't like it. Assumed you took sides. Am I right?" Connor nodded once again. Breathing deep for a few moments, Eric stepped around the bar and joined Connor in front of it, taking a seat beside him. "I don't blame Murphy for getting upset. I can see how bad things look from his end. I can also see how much he loves you and protects you. Do you want to know the truth, Connor?"

"O-of course…" He slinked downward in his seat, worrying a knife was ready to stab his back.

"I did make a mistake. A horrible mistake. I make them from time to time. You see, our guy wore a band on his ring finger. He must have kept it from a previous marriage that he might have cherished."

Cool beads of sweat collected over Connor's nose when he couldn't recall seeing a wedding band on the man's finger when they performed their ritual over him. "O-oh. I see. Happens all de time, eh?"

Eric put an arm around the quaking Connor's shoulders, tugging him against him for a hug. "Indeed. If you'd like me to speak to Murphy, I'd be more than happy to. I'd hate to see you so depressed."

"D-dat's all 'ight. Murph is… well, he just needs time, like wit' every'tin'."

The tension within the room had scaled, and Eric could sense it. Something else was on Connor's mind that he was keeping locked away from him. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

Connor nearly collapsed from the pressure. Eric's grip on him was doting and fond, but his look was haunting and fierce. "Aye." He swallowed. "I t'ink maybe we should… quit." Eric's touch didn't seem so soft anymore. "Dis isn't fer us. Some'tin' about it feels wrong. I can't put my finger on it, exactly… but it's just all wrong."

"Is this because of what happened with Murphy and the dog?"

He was grateful that he was the one to bring it up. It meant that he was on the defensive. "Somewhat. I don't want to have to press a fuckin' iron to my bro'ter's skin again. I don't want to hear him scream like dat. It's too much fer meh."

When Eric's arm slipped from Connor's back, Connor flinched. "That's not the only reason, is it, Connor? You're backing out because you're a coward."

"I… I'm not!"

"I've warned you both from the beginning that this is a serious job. You take risks, even when everything goes according to plan—and as you saw, sometimes things don't go according to plan. That's the way it goes. You either take it like a man, or you run away with your tail between your legs."

"But, I…"

"And you want to go with the latter option."

"Wait a second, here! I'm not afraid fer my own life! I'm afraid fer my bro'ter's!"

"All the same, Connor. Murphy is a very big part of your life, and thus, you're basically one person." He rose up from his stool and sauntered behind him, and Connor spun his seat around to keep his back against the bar. "Connor, I'm not being insincere when I say that… I'm truly sorry for the pain I might have caused you. Perhaps you're partially correct when you say that this isn't the type of work for you both. But I can't deny that I feel otherwise. _Something_ inside of you, and in Murphy, is resting, waiting for the perfect boiling point. I can sense it about as well as I can sense fear in a man who has realized his end is drawing near. Whether your time as a murderer is meant to happen now or later, it is there, dwelling within you. You just won't let that instinct awaken. You bury it like a dog buries a bone. You know you're going to dig it up eventually, and you can't wait for the moment when you do, but you're afraid that if you do, someone else will discover it."

Whatever Eric was rambling about, Connor had no patience for. He regretted coming over now, and only wanted to talk things through with his brother, mend the wound between them, and listen to what he had to say like he should have done in the first place. "Maybe. But I don't t'ink I like de way we're goin' about it. It feels so gruesome."

"It _always_ does at first. I told you, you get used to it. And eventually… people aren't people anymore. They're targets… just like at the range."

He couldn't handle holding back what he really wanted to address any longer. The way Eric now spoke to him clued him in on his dishonesty. If his targets weren't people, then what ever made him believe that Eric would assume him and Murphy as people? "Did ya know de guy had a dog before ya sent Murph in dere?"

Floored that Connor changed the subject so abruptly, he was caught off guard. Backed into a corner, he knew it would be no use to lie about it. "I knew."

"Did ya know he'd find it?"

"I figured he would."

Sliding his beverage aside, Connor leaned over the bar, now feeling a bit on the aggressive side. "Did ya know it'd attack 'im?"

In a natural pose of self-defense, Eric folded his arms over his chest. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Connor. Sometimes, when you look at a situation—"

"_DID YOU KNOW?!_"

Spineless, perhaps, was not something Eric was correct in assuming Connor was. He called him a coward, and usually when he accused it of someone, he was right. Now, he had seen brimstone so bright in his flaming irises that even he, a contracted killer, feared them.

Eric tried his very best to practice a little diplomacy. "I'm sorry Murphy got hurt, Connor, as I'm sure you are. I didn't intend for it, I really didn't. And that's the truth."

All trust that Connor once had for Eric had now begun to slip away. "What about de door? De locked door? Did ya know it'd be locked?"

"Connor…"

"_Tell meh!_"

"No. I didn't." He wiped the underside of his nose, and Connor's glare perpetuated.

"Where's our payment?"

Eric snorted. "_What_ payment? You two didn't do anything last time. I had to do it myself, remember?" When Connor looked ready to leap over the bar and strangle him, he brought his voice down. "I'm sorry. I want to pay you boys. But you don't get paid for doing nothing. Five grand isn't a lot of cash for the job in the first place."

Connor's eyes popped. "_Five _grand?" he repeated.

Eric retraced his steps, thinking back on what he just said. Did he really say five grand? He definitely counted it up correctly in his head, but he was sure the words "two grand" came out of his mouth. "I didn't say five grand."

"Ya did. I fuckin' heard it."

Eric chuckled, hoping that mocking him would get him off his case. "I think you're trying to pull a fast one on me, Connor."

Tame was something Connor no longer felt he could be. Leaping out of his stool, he climbed on top of the bar and leaped over it, grabbing the front of Eric's shirt. "Ya fuckin' snake!"

For someone his age, Eric's heart was in peak condition, but he hadn't felt it palpitate in the way it was now in several years. "Connor! Calm down! If I said five grand, it's not what I meant. I make two grand a pop every time."

"I don't believe ya," growled Connor, shoving his cohort against the wall, pinning him there. In his youth, he overpowered him. "Murph was right, wasn't he? Ya fuckin' lied. About every'tin'!"

Not seeing the use in denying it at this rate, Eric released some lighthearted chuckles. "You're not angry about my deception. You're angry that you were both stupid enough to believe me."

"I ought to fuckin' blow ya away, right now."

"Go ahead. Give the boys downtown at the station a show. Give them your sex tape while you're at it. I bet Greenly would love that one."

"Shut de fuck up."

"Connor… I know you better than you think I do. You are me when I was your age. I didn't fit in with the rest of the world. Wasted most of my time drinking. Took care of my idiot brother. I wanted more out of life, and… I got it. All I wanted was to share that with someone I thought deserved it. I mean it when I say I didn't intend to harm you." He flinched when Connor's grip on him tightened, and he knocked the back of his head against the brick wall. "I was deceitful about many things, it's true. I won't deny that. But I wasn't lying when I said I liked you. You are… you _were_… my friend."

His balled-up fists loosened somewhat, but he didn't release him. "You were mine, too. And dat makes it even more painful. I t'ought we had some'tin' great goin' here, de t'ree of us. I wanted dat to be true. I wanted me and Murph to have… someone to lead us. I had my doubts, but I didn't t'ink de dream would be killed so quickly."

"I know what's in your heart, Connor. You know, too. And so, we've come to the point of no return, haven't we? As old as I am, and despite how mundane and routine my life has become, I still cherish it. I know you wish to kill me, but I don't want that. I'm sure even you don't want that." Connor had his doubts. "So… what must we do to go our separate ways that will leave us both alive?"

"I…" It was then that he wished Murphy was with him. He was better at making such decisions. "I'm not sure I can. How can we know fer sure ya won't come after us if I leave ya alive?"

"You won't. This is a bit of a stretch after what I've done… but you'd have to trust me."

With a shake of the head, Connor's eyes retained their fierceness. "Fuck no."

Despite the circumstances, Eric's heart split in two. Connor had become so much to him in the time they knew each other. He told him more things about his life than he had told his own therapist. To kill Connor would be tougher than cutting sheet metal with a butcher knife. Though he knew it was something he _had_ to do, he didn't want to see his friend meet his demise.

"Then… I'm sorry, Connor. Please try to understand why it has to be this way." Connor shoved him harder against the wall to prevent him from attacking him, but he couldn't see Eric's hand reach into his pocket. By the time Eric unfolded the switchblade, Connor didn't have time to spy it, or react to it. With one swift swoop of the wrist, Eric swiped the blade's edge across Connor's left brow, intending to go for his eye, but missing his mark.

Hollering in pain, Connor staggered back and covered the fresh cut with his hand as he was blinded by the fountain of blood pouring from the deep incision across the hairs of his eyebrow. Once free of Connor's grasp, Eric wrestled him to the ground, pinning him down with his knees. Connor batted at him with flailing hands, but his vision was obscured by the pouring blood that covered his eye.

Eric wanted to overpower Connor, but kill him he did not. He would merely incapacitate him the best he could manage, and find an alternate means of disposal, one where he wouldn't have to witness the act. Connor shrieked, tried to buck him off, but Eric held him down while reaching for the tall bottle of whiskey sitting on the bar. Once he seized it, Connor only got a small, blurry glimpse of it in his hand before he blacked out.

Come nightfall, Murphy's rage had simmered, only for his anxiety to inflate. Connor hadn't come back all evening, and he worried for his safety, no matter how angry he was with him. Connor did like to go walking alone once in a while, but never for this long. He was with Malone, and he knew it, and that's when he feared the worst: that Connor was in danger.

_How could I just let him go like that?_ Murphy asked himself, distraught. There was no time to dwell on it now. If Connor had been in danger, every second he spent pacing the loft was a second wasted. Rocco would give him a ride, especially if he told him it was a life or death situation, and he made a beeline for the phone on his next pass across the room.

His fingers only pressed two numbers down when he heard the door handle turn. Hoping to see Connor on the other end, his heart skipped and he set the phone back down on its cradle before reaching for the door.

He didn't even get it open a slight crack before it was shoved inward, and a shadowed figure entered. Murphy, stunned to see Malone standing there before him without Connor at his side, panicked.

"Where's Connor?!" he shouted through quickened breaths.

"Don't worry," Eric eased, shutting the door behind him. "He's alive. We had a little bit of a… falling out."

"What'd ya do wit' 'im?!"

"You'll find out."

Murphy backed away, toward the wall farthest from him, but Eric gained on him. It was then that he noticed the cloth clenched in his palm. He made a dash for the fire escape, prying the window open, but Eric yanked him back inside by his pant leg, jerking him down to the floor. Murphy spit into his face, but it was only a meager distraction to Eric, who climbed atop him and shoved the cloth to his mouth and nose with force. Murphy kicked and fought him for a while, but eventually collapsed.

Now that he achieved what he came there to do, he hauled Murphy over his shoulders and carried him out the door, preparing to reunite him with his brother one final time.


	9. Chapter 9

Many hours had passed when Murphy came to, and like a rebooting hard drive, each of his senses gradually came to life one after another while he recharged. What he heard on all sides of him was the rocking of light waves, the creaking of wood, the call of seagulls, and the low groan of what he thought was Connor's voice. What he smelled was brine, an aroma of the sea, fresh salt touching his nostrils. What he felt was silken braids wrapped around his wrists, which tightened as he pulled against it, a low breeze upon his face, and the warmth of familiar skin touching his own—Connor's fingers, which were twitching against his knuckles. At this point, he had pieced the puzzle together before opening his eyes. He and Connor were pressed back to back, sitting upright, and they were tied to each other in the very literal sense.

Smacking his lips as he grimaced at the taste of copper, he pulled his eyes open at last, and saw that he was sitting on the bow of the _Damocles_, Eric's yacht, but Eric was nowhere to be found. He wriggled his numb wrists to get the feeling back in them, his skin brushing against Connor's, which roused him.

"Connor," he uttered through a raspy throat. "Connor, are you okay?" Connor mumbled out an incoherent response. "Connor, come on, talk to meh."

"Mrmph…" he groaned, starting to gain consciousness. "M… urph?"

"Aye. It's meh. Wake up."

Connor tried to lift his head, but it must have weight a hundred pounds. The world was spinning too fast for him to open his eyes, but when he became aware of his surroundings, he too wiggled his hands, feeling Murphy's fingers against them. "What…" he began. "De fuck… where… where are we?"

"We're on Malone's boat."

_Malone,_ clicked Connor's mind, and the memory of being whacked across the head with a bottle replayed itself, as did the throb across his forehead. "Murph… oh God. I'm so sorry." He felt Murphy's fingers snake between his own and clench down for comfort and security. He squeezed his hands back.

"What happened?"

"You were right. He… he lied to us. I'm sorry I didn't believe ya."

There was no reason for Connor to apologize. Murphy had already forgiven him. "It doesn't matter now."

They must have been miles from the dock. The only light was a faint one from a lighthouse off in the distant west, and it was so small and dim compared to the reflection of moon on the water's surface. "Yes it does. If I had listened to ya… we wouldn't be here now." He hissed at a pulsing pain in his eyebrow, reminding him of the switchblade that crossed it.

"I'm just glad yer okay," admitted Murphy, who seemed sincere.

"Aye… I'm glad you are, too." Their fingers tightened around each other's. "Though I don't know for how long."

Right on cue, Eric Malone opened the doors to the cabin and emerged, greeting them with a cocked smirk and broken wave. "Gentlemen," he said to them, and they each turned their heads. "Connor. How's your eye?" Though it must have hurt like hell, Connor scowled at him. "Don't be like that. I really wanted to know. I hated that I had to do that to you. I imagine it hurt me as much as it did you." He took a few steps closer, and Connor attempted to scoot both him and Murphy away, but there was hardly any room to do so, and there was nowhere to retreat.

"I'm sorry, but I had to bring your brother along," he continued. "If you disappeared, I'd be at the top of his hit list. Murphy… you sly fellow." Hunching over them, he tapped Murphy on the cheek, and he backed away. "I should have learned from day one that your persistence knows no bounds. Connor told me, and I didn't listen." In the spaces of his monologue, he sipped from a glass of wine. "I'm sure you're both wondering why I didn't kill you. I thought about it. In the end, I couldn't bear to. We haven't had a lengthy relationship, but you've both grown on me, like I had adopted you. Not many things are capable of breaking my heart, but…" He didn't finish that thought, only drank from his glass.

"What now?" Connor interrogated. "What're we doin' out here if yer not killin' us?"

Eric's head drooped. "I'm going to have to use a different approach."

"Meanin'…"

"I don't want to spray your brains everywhere, Connor. I don't even want to stab you. I don't want to put you through any more pain, and I don't have the stomach to clean up the mess."

A knot formed in Murphy's stomach when all of the clues added up. "Ya can't. Ya can't fuckin' leave us out here. Fuckin' poison us or some'tin'!"

"I'm afraid I don't have access to any poison, Murphy. Most of my killing was with more primitive weaponry. Besides… it's a beautiful night. I think it'd be a peaceful way to go. If I were to choose a way to go, it would be this: miles away from civilization, the tranquil sea on all sides, surrounded by the sounds of the ocean. Unlike all of my targets that mean nothing to me, I wanted a nonviolent, serene end for the two of you. You'll have lots of quality time with each other to say your farewells, and you'll be together when it's over."

Murphy began to hyperventilate. "Please. Oh please, fuckin' God."

"Don't be afraid. Connor will be there to keep you company."

"We have a friend! He'll know we're gone! He'll come lookin'!"

"He'll look in the middle of the ocean? I don't think so." Eric reached for the rope between them that held them together, hauling them to their feet, which they stumbled onto.

"Connor," Murphy pleaded, desperate for any kind of plan. That was what Connor was good at: coming up with plans. When he got his tongue stuck to a frozen pole when they were seven, Connor had a plan to dump warm water on it. When he climbed a tree he was too afraid to descend at age ten, Connor had a plan to climb up and help him down. When they wanted to break into the construction site at age twelve, Connor had a plan to get in without being seen. Now, however, Connor seemed drained of ideas, and Murphy felt ultimately helpless. "_Connor,_" he repeated, this time in defeat. Connor could only hang his head, and didn't have any words of comfort for him. This was one situation they wouldn't be able to just swing out of. Eric had the upper hand.

"I'm sorry things turned out this way," mourned Eric, genuine sadness layering his every word as he pushed them toward the gunwale, Murphy fighting against him the entire time, a panic attack filling him from the bottom up. Just the sight of the oily, black water had him wheezing. "I'm sure I don't have many years left in me. It won't be too long before I see you both again."

Eric removed the switchblade from his pocket once again, sticking it between them to cut the rope off. The moment their wrists were free, Eric didn't allow them to regain an advantage. He first shoved Murphy over the edge, knowing Connor would not stay behind, and would go in after him. Murphy splashed about on the surface, choking and spitting, and Connor gave their parting companion one final look of regret. Eric reflected it for a few moments before withdrawing his gun from his holster and nodding toward the water.

The gun wasn't required. Connor jumped in regardless, wanting to join Murphy, even if it was in death. While using the lights from the yacht to see, Murphy swam to Connor and clung to him like a life raft as Eric boarded the pilot house and turned the yacht around. As if it had never been there, it disappeared into the horizon, through the thicket of blackness, and it was no more. Connor and Murphy were now alone.

Connor tried to think of something to say to his shaking, fretting brother, whose teeth were chattering in spite of the warmth of the water. All he could think to do was embrace and clench him tight against his chest, doing all he could to stop his frightened tears from falling. Of course, he was also terrified, but he didn't want his final moments to be shrouded in such misery.

"We're gonna die, aren't we?" wept Murphy, his arms snug around his twin's neck.

_Yes,_ thought Connor, but he didn't want Murphy to break down any further. "We'll be okay," he whispered. Though the waters were calm that night, Murphy still found it difficult to hear him over the sound of rushing and rippling. It was too dark for them to see each other, even by the light of the moon, but as long as Connor could feel him, he wouldn't release him.

"I-I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"It's okay. Don't t'ink about it."

"Mm… M'sorry… m'sorry I punched you in de shoulder… when ya played dat joke on meh."

Connor sighed, lamenting. "It's okay, Murph. I asked fer it."

"M'sorry I went back to dat house. If I hadn't…"

"Murph… look at meh." Murphy did, or at least attempted to. Connor could feel him move, and connected their foreheads, regardless of being unable to see him. "It doesn't matter now, all 'ight? I don't blame you fer a t'ing. Not a fuckin' t'ing, ya hear meh?" Murphy nodded, the skin of his face brushing against Connor's. "M'sorry, too. I've… I've hurt ya a lot."

"It's okay. I hurt ya back."

Connor chuckled, and Murphy joined him, though it was forced through a torrent of tears. "Aye. Got meh good sometimes." When Murphy's arms tightened around him, he too squeezed him. They spent a few minutes that way, hanging onto each other for dear life while the ocean roared around them. Connor had always heard of "life flashing before your eyes" from films, and he always wondered if it was true. Now, he knew what people were talking about. His life did indeed course before him, like a shoddy home movie, replaying recent events, events in years past, events from childhood. He couldn't remember a time when Murphy wasn't there with him. And now he would be beside him in death. In retrospect, he supposed it made sense for them to be together when it happened.

Murphy's thoughts were just the same. It wasn't long ago he hoped they would die together one day. He didn't think that day would be so soon. No one ever did. As they floated upon the level of the water's surface, he wondered how different his life would be if he had been born alone. His tongue might still be stuck to that frozen pole, that's for sure.

"Do ya remember when…" Connor started, initially doing so to grieve, but now to reminisce. "When I teased ya fer likin' sheep?"

His twin couldn't see it, but he smiled. "Aye. Ya had every right to. I was such a little—"

"Ya weren't. I was an asshole to ya, fer a lot o't'ings. I t'ought one day we'd go back home. To Ireland, I mean. Have a sheep farm. Some'tin' like dat."

Hearing Connor say such a thing destroyed what was left of Murphy's strength, tearing his heart asunder. "_When de hell were ya t'inkin' o'dat?_" he whispered to him.

"Only a couple weeks ago, I t'ink. It sounded nice…"

"Dunno. Sheep smell pretty bad." After a moment's pause, they burst out laughing, though it was wrought with depression. "I dunno if I'd make it a day wit'out givin' up on it."

"I'd help ya. W-woulda… helped ya."

"I wish ya had told meh sooner, Connor. I would've taken ya up on it."

"Aye…" moaned Connor as he once again clung to him. "I wish I had, too."

A whimper creaked Murphy's throat, and Connor stroked his neck to ease him. "I love you."

"Why ya sayin' it like it's goodbye, eh?"

"Because it is."

No. He wouldn't go down without a fight. How could he even consider simply floating and dying there? That wasn't how they went about things. Already, a plan stirred in his now active mind. "Listen… it's not goodbye just yet. We're gonna be okay."

Murphy adored Connor's enthusiasm on every other occasion, but now it seemed so naïve and out of place. "Connor… ya know it ain't true."

"We will. I promise, Murph. I'll get us home." He had to wonder now what he meant by "home". It could have meant many things at this point. "Dere's a lighthouse, out to de west. Do ya see it?" He took Murphy's chin in his hand and turned it toward the direction of the light in the far distance. "We just have to make it to dat lighthouse."

"What are ya, insane?" Murphy scoffed, shaking his head. "We'd never fuckin' make dat."

"It's only gotta be about sixteen or seventeen miles away. If we keep goin' and never give up… we could do it."

"It'd take us a whole day to reach it."

"Well we'd better get started, den."

"Connor… I… I dunno if I can."

Connor placed both hands on his face. "Ya gotta have a little faith, bro'ter. Trust meh." He smacked a powerful kiss onto his lips, and though Murphy's lips were weak and trembling, he returned gesture. "We'll make it. Come Hell or…" He cocked a smirk and breathed out a partial laugh. "We'll make it. I'll be beside ya every stroke o'de way." Murphy's random sounds of uncertainty stopped when Connor tapped his cheek. "We're MacManuses, baby! We can do any'tin'!"

Murphy grinned at that, and he had to admit that his encouragement excited him. "All 'ight. _All 'ight! Let's fuckin' DO IT!_"

"Yeh! _Yeh!_ Dat's de fuckin's spirit, my bro'ter!" Connor stripped his shirt and jeans off, feeding them to the ocean, and told Murphy to do the same, and that the clothes would slow them down. Murphy then peeled his own clothes off, which was a challenge while soaking wet and floating in one place.

They began their journey toward the flickering light, keeping hope alive and their hearts beating. To make sure they didn't separate, they spoke to each other, even if it was meaningless conversation. On their second mile, sleepiness overcame Connor, but he forced his eyes open, and was guided by Murphy's calls to catch up with him.

"Ya gotta keep meh awake, Murph," Connor warned through heavy breaths. "Tell me some'tin' dat would keep me from goin' to sleep."

"Um…" Murphy slowed his pace so that Connor could reach him again, lifting him out of the water as he started to sink. "I told Roc about us."

Connor shook his head, spraying water back and forth. "Ya what?!"

"He knows."

"De fuck?! Now he's gonna act all weird around us!"

Murphy chuckled as Connor gained on him, knowing he was about to tear his head off. "Ay, I only told 'im 'cause I had to!" He swam faster as Connor increased his speed.

"_Had to_ my pale ass! Ya tryin' to alienate our only friend?"

"Would ya relax?! He seemed cool wit' it! Well… seemed disturbed… _den_ he seemed cool wit' it. Don't worry. I t'ink he's happy just fergettin' all about it."

By now Connor had rejoined him at his side, continuing on their way. "Fer yer fuckin' sake, ya'd better hope so." In the beams of the moon, Murphy could see his wide, playful smile.

"Why? What would ya do to meh?"

"Oh… after we get outta dis situation? I'll have a whole _list_ of t'ings I wanna do to ya." They shared an entertained laugh.

Another couple of miles, and they could feel it taking its toll on their arms, waists, and legs. Acknowledging that it was getting tougher, they stopped for a short break every now and then, giving each other the same pep talks, gearing up for another lengthy paddle. "Only about twelve or t'irteen miles to go," Connor reminded Murphy, who nodded to him. "We're doin' good. Doin' real good. Keep at it."

As they left miles behind them, so too did they leave hours of time. When dawn broke, they had hardly realized it. Exhaustion was the heaviest concern on their minds when they reached the halfway point—or, at least it was until their stomachs growled and their mouths ran dry. Their pace had slowed significantly since the night prior, but Connor kept their thoughts positive.

"I-I t'ink we're…" He stopped and took a few breaths, as did Murphy. "W-we're about halfway." He spit stray saltwater from his mouth. "If we just keep headin' dis way… we'll make it by dinnertime."

"_Please,_" whined Murphy. "Don't mention food. I'm fuckin' starvin'."

"Good," sighed Connor. "Dat'll motivate ya to get dere faster. Let's move, come on." Murphy swam alongside him, pushing on as hard as they could, despite feeling worse for wear. Halfway through the next mile, Connor felt the overwhelming drowsiness kick in, and for the first time since starting their expedition, he was too weak to continue. "Murph…" he choked, and Murphy halted, turning toward him. Seeing him starting to sink, he splashed toward him, scooping him up.

"Connor, come on!" he demanded, smacking at his face. "I'm not fuckin' leavin' ya here! Ya gotta stay wit' meh!"

He tried, with all of his might, but couldn't keep his eyes open. "M'so tired…"

"I know. Meh too. But we're stickin' toge'ter on dis."

"I can't… can't…"

Now hopeless that his enthusiastic brother was giving up, Murphy didn't know what to do. "Connor, ya told meh we could do dis, and I believe ya. We're so fuckin' close! Ya can't give up now!" When Connor passed out on him, he knew he was alone, and it was up to him to get them home. He'd have to carry Connor there, and he'd go much slower and lose energy quicker, but he refused to abandon him. He draped his brother over his shoulders, then carried on, chanting to himself that he would get them there or die trying.

Four miles, four hours. Murphy's arms and legs could hardly move anymore, but he pushed them, though the sparked with pain, and didn't quit. Connor hadn't yet woken, but he kept on breathing, and it motivated Murphy to make it to their destination. He dreamt of land, dreamt of their friend, dreamt of Irish whiskey, even dreamt of that shitty apartment building. Those rickety beds were a welcome gift compared to this.

"We're almost dere…" he repeated several times over. "Just a little more…" He spat water and choked on the awful taste of brine. "Hang in dere, Connor… I'll get us dere…"

When The Graves came into view, Murphy was too weak to let out a cheer of victory. The sun had already set, and the moon smiled down upon them as it did through their first night, and now it guided Murphy on his way toward the lighthouse. The stones and boulders along the side of the island presented themselves to Murphy like a glorious shrine, and the ocean's current carried him and the unconscious Connor towards the shore. Panting, wheezing, aching, throbbing, and bobbing like a lure on the end of a fishing line, Murphy, at long last, had reached the lighthouse.

The first thing he did was grab any part of land he could reach and grip it as tight as he could while hauling his brother up to safety. He had never been faced with a bigger challenge in all of his life, but when he did it, he finally knew they would be okay. Now that Connor was rested on the rocks, he climbed upon them and collapsed beside him, resting his arms, heaving and gasping.

"Connor…" he croaked. "We made it… we… _we made it_…"

"Oh my god," gasped an unfamiliar female voice. Murphy tried to hold his eyes open, but it was as difficult as swimming all that way without resting. He heard the sound of footsteps rushing toward them, and all he could think of was shelter, and he prayed that their visitor would lead them there.

"My god," the woman repeated. "Are you all right?!" Murphy tried to speak, but his dry, cracked lips only moved to the vague motions of what he thought were words. "Frank! _FRANK! _Get over here!" More footsteps. If Murphy needed to defend his and his brother's life, he didn't have the energy in him to do so, so he hoped whoever these people were meant well.

"Jesus Christ," gasped an older man's voice, which sounded closer. He was kneeling near them and looking them over from what Murphy could sense. "Get the boat ready. These two need a hospital."

Television? Was that the sound of television?

Connor's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurred, but came more into focus each passing second. Mixed with the echo of sitcom audience laughter were the sound of Murphy's enchanted, whimsical giggles. Such a sound would normally amuse him, even enamor him, but for a moment, he thought they were dead.

_Is this what Heaven's like?_ he wondered, feeling around on the surface of a soft, delicate mattress which was the perfect remedy for his aching back. He could make out the shape of a black box on the wall playing one of his favorite shows. Murphy was there, laughing, enjoying himself… now, if only he had a beer, it'd be perfect. Maybe God didn't allow beer in Heaven.

"Ay," gasped a stunned Murphy, and Connor turned his fuzzy eyes toward the sound of his voice. "Connor? You awake?"

"Where…" He paused, now feeling too afraid to ask that question, thinking he might be dreaming and he'd find himself back on Eric's boat.

"We're in de hospital. How ya feelin'?"

"H… ospital?" Wasn't he just in the water a moment ago?

Murphy threw the blanket off of himself and climbed out of the bed, pulling his IV stand along with him as he walked up to Connor's bed. He sat down in one of the cushioned chairs, smiling with relief as he placed a hand on top of his twin's. "I was so fuckin' scared ya wouldn't… well dat ya'd never wake up."

His dried lips split as they spread into the largest grin he had ever fashioned and pulled his brother into a tight squeeze. "Oh, fuck," he sighed. "We're fuckin' alive!"

Murphy held him back, though the tubes and wires got in the way. "Aye. We're okay."

"But I… I don't remember how we got here."

"Ya passed out on de way to de lighthouse. I carried ya de rest of de way."

"_Carried_ meh," Connor repeated, aghast. Murphy's head waved in a proud, dutiful nod. "Ya _carried _meh all dat way?" He nodded again. Connor yanked him close, pressing his head against his chest.

"I wasn't gonna leave ya," Murphy explained, clenching him back. "I'd ra'ter die den go on wit'out ya."

"Ya fuckin' saved our lives," cried Connor, trying to keep himself composed, but it was all too much for him to bear. "I fuckin' love ya. I fuckin' love ya _so fuckin' much_."

"I love you, too," he declared.

Connor finally released him, giving him room to breathe, then wiped his eyes dry. "Oh, good God, man. How'd ya fuckin' do it?!"

"Almost couldn't. If I had been alone… I would've given up." He clapped his hand into Connor's, feeling a tight grasp afterward. "Look." Murphy showed Connor the patch job done on his arm. "Doesn't look so bad anymore, does it?" Connor shook his head, still smiling. "Dey gave ya stitches, too. On yer eyebrow." He brushed his forefinger along his brow line, feeling the knots tied there.

Connor's stomach growled and he slapped a hand over it to shut it up. Murphy raised his finger, indicating to give him a moment. "Check dis out," he chuckled. He pressed a button on a keypad on the side of Connor's bed. Within a few minutes a nurse in scrubs appeared in the door, and she sighed before putting her hands on her hips.

"_Yes,_ Mister MacManus?" she said, as though it had been the millionth time that day.

"My bro'ter's awake, and he's hungry. Could ya get 'im some'tin'?"

"Are you sure you don't want the TV turned up?"

"Nah, I got de hang of usin' de remote."

She shook her head, then rolled her eyes. "I'll be back in a minute."

The moment she was gone, they both laughed. "What de hell have ya been doin' while I was out? Ya torturin' dese poor people?"

Murphy snorted. "I've never been served like dis before. Give meh a break."

After getting cleared for release, Connor and Murphy called Rocco and told him to pick up some clothes for them, and while waiting, discussed the next course of action, sitting on Connor's bed together, side by side.

"I dunno what ya wanna do, Connor," Murphy addressed once they were alone in the room. "But I'm not gonna be able to live de rest of my life unless dat mo'terfucker is dead."

Connor had to admit that the thought of killing Eric after all he had put them through was a satisfying one, but he also thought that revenge was petty, and they weren't that evil. "Maybe it'd be better if we went on pretendin' he never existed. He t'inks we died out dere in dat ocean."

Murphy slapped him on the back. "Exactly! We have de advantage."

"It's not like us, Murph."

"_What_ isn't? We were so ready to kill bad guys before! Why is dis any different?" When Connor didn't answer, he sighed. In truth, he already knew the answer. "Because he was yer friend… right?" Connor didn't intend to nod, but he did regardless. "He wasn't much of a friend if he dumped us off as shark food."

"I know. I don't consider 'im a friend any longer. I hate 'im now, to be honest. De problem is dat revenge is… it's…"

Murphy huffed, "_Revenge?_ Dis is more den revenge, Connor. Dis is _justice._ If we don't fuckin' kill 'im, how many more innocent lives is he goin' to take?"

"Well, we could tell de police—"

"Ya serious?! He's a detective! What makes ya t'ink he's not protected, eh?! And he could pull us down wit' 'im if we talked. Besides, de law ain't gonna do shit, and ya know it. He's eliminated all de evidence."

No matter how he tried to reject the idea, Murphy made far better points to him. It was hard to accept, but it was how things had to be. Eric Malone needed to die, one way or the other. Who would be the one to pull the trigger in the end? In some ways, he felt like he was the one responsible for what happened, and that therefore, he should be the one to end Eric's life, but he worried that in the grand scheme of things, he'd never be able to carry it out.

"Fuck," he groaned, running a hand over his hair, which had gotten longer in the months he hadn't visited a barber. "Yer right. How de fuck are we gonna go about it? We can't just walk in de front door."

"How about de back door?" It was only a half-joke.

"He's got cameras everywhere, remember?" Murphy turned a shade of pink at the recollection. "Guess we could cut de power. Yeh. Cut de power and break in t'rough a window."

Murphy didn't get the chance to protest to that idea before Rocco strolled into the room carrying a brown paper bag. As though he hadn't seen him in years (and it certainly felt like it after that swim), Murphy cheered at his entrance and jumped to his feet to give him a thick hug. Rocco, who didn't seem as repulsed by his friendly affection as Murphy assumed he'd be, hugged him back.

Passing the bag over to Murphy, who dug through it and removed their clothes, Rocco asked, "So. Should I assume you guys aren't going to tell me about _this_ either?"

"We just decided we wanted to go fer a long swim," Connor explicated. "Turned out to be longer den we could handle."

Rocco tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Right. Do swims usually give you eyebrow scars?"

"Dere were a lot of rocks… on dis particular… journey."

"Aye," agreed Murphy, who passed Connor his set of clean clothes. "Lots o'dem."

"And you guys just… decided to swim across the ocean, huh?"

"Aye," they said in unison.

Giving up, Rocco threw his palms up and looked to the ceiling. "Course. Course you did. Why would I assume otherwise? How stupid of me. You guys do that sort of thing all the time!"

While pulling a clean shirt on over his head, Connor said, "We do all sorts o't'ings we don't tell ya about, Roc. Kinda figured ya didn't wanna hear about dem."

Rocco grimaced, curled his nose, then swayed his head. ""Appreciate the courtesy."

"Aye," moaned Murphy, leaning back on the bed with a lurid smirk, altering his tone to seductive while prying his knees open an inch. "We should tell ya about de time Connor went down on meh—"

"I'll see you guys in the fucking waiting room!" He vacated the area before any other details could sneak their way into his ears.

Connor squinted at his twin, who couldn't help but laugh. Connor, beside himself, also cracked up while slapping Murphy on the chest.

Now fully clothed, they headed out, rejoining Rocco in the waiting room. On their way to the elevators, Connor asked, "Would ya mind givin' us a ride somewhere, Roc? Possibly tomorrow night?"

"_Somewhere?_" he reiterated with a worn-out sigh.

"It's not a long trip."

"That's not what concerns me. You guys have been…" They boarded the elevator, riding it to the garage level. "Acting weird… and that's not including the whole…" He waved his palms up and down in an awkward, jagged motion. "You know. You've been keeping shit from me, telling me lies and shit. I don't know why I put up with you!"

Connor rested his palm on his friend's shoulder. "Look, Roc, I know we've been a little elusive lately. It won't be like dat anymore. We just have a couple more things to do, and den it's all over."

"Aye," Murphy chimed in. "And when we're done, we can hang out again."

"What makes you micks think I _want_ to hang out with you anymore?"

"Because we're beautiful," joked Murphy, batting his eyelashes.

"And we're gonna make it up to ya, man," interjected Connor.

Somehow or other, Connor could always persuade him, no matter how upset he was with him. "You promise?"

"Absolutely." He reached out for his hand, and Rocco slapped his into it.

"_Fine._ But no more favors after this, and don't keep me in the dark, all right? I'll accept that you don't want to tell me anything right now. But if something else happens, you're telling me everything. Got it?"

"Sounds like a fair deal to meh."

Rocco dropped them off at their apartment, where they spent the rest of the evening discussing what they'd do to Eric. Connor made it clear that they were to put him down, not torture him, and he wanted to do it in a tasteful way. Murphy agreed with him on that note, though he did want to make Malone suffer after what he did to Connor.

When the night closed, Murphy clung to Connor so tight that it reached a ridiculous point, but Connor didn't mind it. He was just as thrilled to still be alive, that Murphy was still alive, that they still had a chance to make things right.

And they would make it right. In the end, Connor knew now what Eric meant when he said he felt they were destined to meet. Fate did not align the three them for companionship as Connor originally surmised. It had brought them together for one reason, and one only.

For them to murder him.


	10. Chapter 10

Eric Malone didn't celebrate his birthday anymore. He kept track of the years, the months, the days, but life to him was one long timeline, with a beginning, middle and end, and none of that timeline was worth worshipping with greater grandeur than any other section of it. He had lived over sixty years, and in that time, he had seen the best and worst of humanity, in both youth and adults. Witnessing the acts of humans, he had come to learn that some people were simply born without the capability to sympathize. Of all of the cases he had seen, many assumed the types of people that could commit such horrid acts were "disturbed," that they had grown up in bad environments, that they were psychologically scarred. As a detective, Eric learned much more about the human condition than the common rabble, and he could say, without a doubt, that sometimes people surprised him.

The common man was so easily influenced. He didn't know a good guy from a bad guy until a movie taught him so. Most people were accomplished at hiding guilt, as they've practiced it since lying as a child. Eric had certainly developed skilled acting lessons over the years. Sure, he hated Dolly and Greenly, as they were small-minded fools that couldn't find a piece of gum if it was stuck to their shoe, but with everyone else, he could say he was rather on the "normal" side. A common man couldn't tell whether he was "good" or "evil." He was simply Eric.

Even Connor and Murphy were fooled into believing he was the sensitive type. Bringing down criminals via murder? What kind of nonsense was that? Still, they took to it like fish to worms, as though they had been waiting years for an excuse to kill. Eric didn't feel the least bit guilty about luring them in and giving them that excuse. They wanted to do it; he could see it in their eyes. They were killers, through and through.

As he sat in his office, writing down notes in a journal he usually kept locked away in a drawer, he thought of them. Were they out there on the water now, telling each other stories, spending their final moments reminiscing about their lives, whether or not they had wasted them? Did they think of him as much as he thought of them? He wondered then what he would do if he were stranded and left for dead with his own brother. What would he do? Apologize to him; tell him that all along he loved him, despite all he had done? Could he even say such things to Marshall without losing the emotional shield he generated over himself?

While writing down in his journal, he felt a compelling desire to think back on the events of his life, as though it would end that very evening. The biggest regret, as he once told Connor, was never having a family of his own. His final chance at one rested with Connor and Murphy, who he might have subconsciously freed from his clutches in the very sympathy he thought he lacked. They were good men that deserved a good life, and even he knew that. He wished he could start over with them, nurture them in a gentler manner, and perhaps even give them more than he had. Every chance to let them grow into his shoes, he ruined with his arrogant expertise. It could have been great. Even Connor agreed with him on that.

Though he did regret that, he didn't regret much else. He tried to love, and in short, it didn't work out. Whether people were men or women, he couldn't imagine loving them. He tried learning new skills, only to attribute them to his primary skill of killing. And yet, life went on, as usual, and he still sat in his office, alone. While alone was a comfortable feeling, it wasn't the right one.

On the other hand, he was happy with how he carried things out. If he was to relive his life, he'd do it all over again and wouldn't change a damn thing. He'd hit every mark, travel each of the same roads, and he'd be just as satisfied with his accomplishments. It was true that he had taken innocent lives. It was also true that helped innocent lives. No one person was worse or better than the other, nor were they more special.

He supposed that Connor and Murphy might have been the wrong people to recruit. They had a blood thirst, but they were his polar opposites. They were the light to his dark. What he taught them was not to stop feeling, but to feel even stronger about what they did. He was right about them in many ways, and yet, terribly wrong in others. If Eric could not, in fact, feel sorry, then he wondered what this feeling he had now in regards to the lives he took for granted. Sympathy, it was not. It couldn't have been.

For now, he shut his journal and got ready to turn in for the night. He went to the corner of the room where he kept his safe, kneeling down and cranking the dial, twisting the handle. The door moaned as he heaved it open, and he began to stockpile the cash from his recent hit on top of notes and photographs.

That night, he would finish off a bottle of whiskey, as it would be the only way he would get to sleep.

Both of the MacManus brothers were cold and stoic that evening, and they couldn't bring themselves to speak much to each other. However, they didn't need to. Over the years they had lived together, they had become adept at sensing each other's thoughts, emotions, and sensations. Murphy knew that Connor was going through with this as a duty to civilization, as Connor knew Murphy's reasons were more personal. Though they had their differing views on their task, they both agreed that it needed to be done, and they would do it together, as they did everything.

Murphy worried for Connor. Of the two of them, this ordeal weighed heaviest on his shoulders. He reassured him with pats and hugs when he could, and was glad to see that he'd smile at him, even if it wasn't in his heart to do so. Murphy was the first to pull his black coat on, and Connor followed suit. The next thing to come on was the leather gloves provided to them on their first hit, then a checking of the clips of their handguns came afterward. Connor twisted a silencer onto the end of his Beretta, and Murphy did the same to his own.

An aura of darkness followed them as they left the apartment, tucking their guns away behind their waistbands, hiding them behind the tails of their shirts and coats to avoid Rocco seeing them. When they got into the backset of Rocco's car, they lit up simultaneous cigarettes and smoked them with each other in disturbed silence. Despite the cold demeanor the brothers acted in, Rocco said nothing to them. They evidently were not in much of a talking mood. Whatever it was they planned to do, it was not something to be cheerful about.

Rocco followed the directions they gave him the previous day, taking the eerie, shadowed route through the woods as he followed the driveway up to Eric's house. He parked several feet back from the house as they had asked him to, and they patted him on the back to thank him. The rancid flavor in Rocco's mouth could have ranged from old coffee to poorly-rolled cigarettes, but if he were to choose one, balls-to-the-wall fear would have been the best way to describe it.

Before moving toward the house, Connor and Murphy looked each other in the eye to determine if one another were ready. Following a serious stare into each other's pupils, Connor nodded to his brother. Murphy returned the motion, and they disappeared into the darkness, following the dirt drive all the way up to the front door. Using a flashlight, Connor traced the side of the house, looking for any kind of entrance to the basement. When he found a small window they could slip through, he waved Murphy over. Like they were chained with a telepathic link, Murphy came to his side despite not being able to see him very well in the darkness.

Connor kneeled down to the window and kicked at it to shove it open. Murphy got down and helped him, until the force of their blows broke the inner latch, and it swung open with ease. Connor was the first to slip through, landing on the basement floor, and he aided Murphy down next. Right away, Connor shone his light around the room to scope for any trace of Eric at the bar or in the arsenal, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. Thinking they had lucked out on that point, he went to work.

Guiding his way with the flashlight, Connor scanned the walls until he found the fuse box, which he pried open. He wasn't familiar with the functionality of a fuse box, so all he could think to do was flip every switch until it got the results he wanted. He knew he had achieved what he wanted when the lights in the basement went out. Murphy's flashlight beam landed on him, waiting for further instructions. Connor nodded toward the staircase, and ascended them to the upper floor, followed by his brother.

The stubborn floor groaned beneath their weight, creaking at their every step, and no matter how they tried, it was something they couldn't control. It seemed intent on giving away their position as they shuffled down the hall. By now, they had withdrawn their handguns, the very ones Eric gifted them with, and held them along with their flashlights. Wherever Eric was now, they weren't sure, but they knew if they wanted to find him, they had to use every one of their natural instincts.

In the moment the lights snapped off, Eric had been in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He had forgotten a lot of things his mother taught him over the years, but good dental hygiene was a rule he followed since she nagged at him during childhood.

The darkness didn't concern Eric from the start, but when it the power didn't flicker back on, he knew something was wrong. He crept out of the bathroom and into the hall, slinking toward his bedroom on the edges of his toes, feeling along the walls to find his way there. If he could reach his bedroom, he could reach the gun he kept stored in his bedside table.

His first step into the room croaked, and he winced at its volume. Of all of the houses he skulked through, it just had to be his own with the weakest foundations. He supposed, like everything else, that was how it was meant to be. He quickened his speed, bumping into a table and the edges of his bed as he scrambled for the table, digging blindly around in the drawer for his gun. Feeling the cold steel in his palm, he clasped his hand around it and yanked it out, then felt his way back into the hall.

Footsteps. He knew the sound of those quite well; and they were emanating from the floor below. Sneaking out of his room, he dragged his hand along the wall to follow it to the staircase, which he climbed down, following the sound of the very steps that had invaded his home.

Connor was the first of the two of them to halt, as well as shut off his flashlight. Murphy didn't ask why he did, only repeated the process. That's when he knew why his brother stopped moving, because he too had heard it—the sound of someone approaching. He could barely see Connor, let alone the room they had hid in, but when his twin clamped a hand over his mouth to indicate he wanted him to remain silent, he threw his head up and down.

Eric was closer to them than he thought he was. The two of them had slipped into his office and stood idle, perking their ears to the sound of his steps and breathing. Connor, as gently and quietly as he could, pulled back the handgun's hammer, wrapping his finger around the trigger as he pointed the barrel toward the hallway.

Knowing that they'd be screwed if he missed the shot, he also realized that he couldn't take the chance. He needed to be able to see where he was shooting. The flashlight would give them away, but if he got the shot off before they were caught, it'd be smooth sailing from there on out.

A floorboard creaked at the perfect— or in Eric's case, worst— moment as he passed the office. Just as he had stepped on it, a stinging beacon stabbed his eyes with white hot light. Blinded, he began to raise his hand to block the beam, only to hear the sharp sound of a _pop_, and felt the familiar, awful heat of a bullet piercing the flesh of his arm. His gun fell from his hand in the recoil, and while distracted by the flashlight in his eyes and fiery pain moving through his veins, there was no option to go diving for it.

With a deep groan, Eric clutched his fresh, bleeding wound as a strong hand grappled the collar of his shirt and shoved him down the hallway. The main question on his mind now was: who was his attacker? It could have been anyone. It could have been a spouse of a target who had discovered who he was. It could have been a fellow detective or officer. It could have been one of his previous clients. Of all of the people he expected, the very ones pushing him toward the living room to his doom were not on that list.

Now that they were in his living room (from what he could tell of his dark surroundings), he realized that he had two attackers. Their footsteps were almost in sync as they walked at the same tempo, and from the sounds of them, they had to have been of similar weight.

_No,_ dreaded Eric. _It can't be them._

Cold steel pressed against the back of his head as one of the figures paced around to his front, and Eric followed the golden light as it illuminated the face of what he thought was a ghost.

"Hello, Eric," said that thick Irish accent. "Good to see ya again."

Eric's mind, as well as his eyes, boggled. Sure, he had whiskey for dinner, but he couldn't recall the last time alcohol made him hallucinate like this. "_Connor,_" he replied with a hush.

"Aye. Connor."

"Shall I guess that your brother is the one pressing iron against the back of my head?" Connor nodded to show he was correct. Eric's eyes closed, and a grin of epic proportions stretched over his teeth. Then, he began to laugh. Of course Connor and Murphy made it back. What _weren't_ they capable of? "Fishing boat?"

Connor shook his head back and forth, and Eric's smile dipped. "Swam."

"_Swam,_" repeated Eric, now in fascination. "Well. Evidently, I've made a very critical error. Didn't take such heavy smokers for sufficient swimmers."

Showing Eric the barrel of his weapon, Connor took a step closer. Eric's smile came back. The irony was a lot more painful than his bullet wound. "Ya know why we're here… don't ya?"

With a sigh, he answered, "I've come to the proper conclusions, yes."

"Murph's here fer revenge. I won't deny it. M'sure he won't ei'ter. But dere are t'ings I wanna know."

"Of course. What more would I expect of a seeker of truth?"

"De people you were gonna have us kill… dey weren't criminals."

Eric hissed as the pain from his wound persisted, and he clenched it with his working hand. "Genius isn't required to figure that one out." He flinched when Connor raised the gun's silencer to his head, aiming it at his eyeball.

"How many in yer lifetime have ya killed?" His hand wanted to shake, but he kept it steady.

"Oh, dear boy, you can't possibly ask me such a thing. That's like asking how many orgasms a man has had in his whole life. It's not possible to calculate if you haven't been keeping track from the very beginning." He shrugged his good shoulder. "Too many. Let's put it that way. I may have single-handedly wiped out half the population of Boston underneath everyone's nose."

"And? Now dat yer gonna die… how does it make ya feel?"

Taking a moment to think it over, Eric glanced up at Connor, or what he could see of him, and his lips clicked open. "You don't want to know how I feel about it, Connor. You want to know how _you'll_ feel about it once it's over. You want solace that once you pull that trigger, you'll be able to sleep at night. I can't compare my thoughts and feelings to those of another man, killer or not. All I can tell you is… for the past thirty years or so… I've slept like a baby. Can't say the same for you. Alas, you'll have time to make amends with your Lord. And it appears… whether I like it or not… my time has run out."

Connor's wrist quaked, as did the gun in his hand. "I want to say dat I wish I had never met ya. But… if I did, I'd be lyin'."

Hearing the sadness in his voice, Eric used the kindest tone he could muster. "I had already figured that you'd be the one to take my life. If that's the way fate will have it, I'll accept it. I suppose it's rather fitting, isn't it? I wanted you to carry on my legacy, and here you are… doing it by killing me. I could say I'm even… proud. Perhaps you're more ready for this than I assumed."

Reaching down his shirt, Connor fished for the beads of the rosary around his neck, then pulled them free, letting the rosary drop loose down his chest and toward his stomach, where it dangled. At the sight of it, Eric was speechless, and yet, pleased. In spite of the circumstances, he had to chuckle, and as Connor stepped behind him, his laughter had filled the halls.

Connor looked to his brother, who continued to press his gun against Eric's head. At his hesitation, Murphy made a suggestion: "Toge'ter. At de same time."

To this, Connor nodded, then brought the barrel upward and pressed it on the other side of Eric's skull. Then, he froze. What was the next step after putting a gun to someone's head?

That's when Murphy shocked him with the very words he never thought he'd hear him utter. "And shepherds we shall be."

Drawing in a careful breath, Connor spoke the next line with concurrent fervor and bereavement. "For Thee, my Lord, for Thee."

"Power hath descended forth from Thy hand."

"That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command."

"And we shall flow a river forth to Thee."

"And teeming with souls shall it ever be."

For the final line of their inherited mantra, their voices became one. "_In Nomine Patris, Et Filii, Et Spiritus Sancti._"

Over the resonating click of both guns cocking, Eric no longer heard his own cackles, but what he did hear was his own voice in the back of his dark mind. _And so, the Devil awaits me._

Both brothers squeezed their triggers at the same moment in time, firing criss-crossing bullets through the brain of their former friend, sending him collapsing to the floor, just as he had to the many hundreds of lives he had smote. As he lie before them, bleeding from his freshly-eradicated eyes, the two of them drifted into a respectful silence, dotting their fingers in a cross pattern over their chests.

Kneeling beside Eric's body, Connor reached into his pocket for the handful of change he carried with him, taking two quarters out of the pile and resting one on each of his eyelids.

"Should be more den enough to get ya dere," Connor whispered to him before folding his hands over his chest.

Upon standing, he leaned against Murphy for moral and emotional support, and he felt doting arm slip around his shoulders. Connor wished there was more he could do for Eric's soul, though it had been a corrupt one, for he knew that Heaven would never take him, even after their ritual. Subsequent to everything, Eric still meant something to him, and he was someone he would never be able to forget.

Aided by his flashlight, he made his way back to the basement, where he switched the power back on. Murphy gawked at him when he came back up and asked, "What'd ya do dat for?"

"He has a video feed room. I saw it. Let's just go grab de tapes."

Murphy turned his hands up and pressed his brow downward. "Why didn't we just fuckin' do dat in de first place instead of stumblin' around in de dark?!"

"Shut de hell up, all 'ight? I didn't know before now dat he had a room wit' tapes in it! How was I supposed to know how his shit works?! Besides, bein' in de dark worked out fer us, didn't it?!" He brushed past Murphy, muttering to himself about Murphy getting on his case.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Murphy followed his brother down the hallway to the security room, where they searched through a stack of tapes labeled with dates and security footage. Connor grabbed one tape in particular that had a memorable date on it.

"Dis one belongs to us," he confirmed with Murphy, who wore a cocksure smirk. In addition to their "adult video," Connor removed the tape currently in the recorder, and with both tapes in hand, wandered out of the room, and then out of the house.

There was no telling how long Eric Malone's body would remain there undiscovered, or if anyone would bother to come looking for them. However it ended up, the matter was no longer in their hands. They had already carried out what they felt was the best jurisdiction.

Arriving together at Rocco's car, they kept their greeting casual, and didn't let on at all that they had just blown a guy away less than thirty minutes ago. Rocco didn't ask questions, but he was dying to have answers. Regardless, he drove them home as he promised, and they in turn promised him that they'd spend time together that weekend.

In their apartment, they didn't speak to each other for a while. Connor sat down on his bed and rested his hands upon his jaw, thinking on what they had just done. Murphy sat across from him, looking him in the eye.

"Dat guy I killed…" he mentioned to his grieving twin, who only stared back. "He didn't do any'tin' wrong. I t'ought dat if we killed Malone, I'd stop feelin' guilty about it. I… I just feel worse. I feel like ya shoulda shot me dere beside 'im."

He reached his hand forward, and Murphy took it, feeling a scrunch around his fingers, which curled around the palm that clasped him. "It doesn't matter what you've done," Connor voiced with absolute certainty. "Yer still a saint to meh." Murphy's hand limped to his side and he fell forward into Connor's warm, brotherly arms, which tightened around his torso. Connor never tired of hugging him, and he hoped they'd have more to share in the future. In his heart, he knew that their dark paths didn't end with Eric's death. He didn't wish to admit it, but their lives had a course that they would soon feel obligated to follow.

When Murphy had calmed, he asked Connor, with a touch of his usual wit: "What do we do wit' de tape? Ya know… de one? Of us?"

Connor had already come up with an idea. "Let's re-label it and leave it at Rocco's." He couldn't even finish that sentence without laughing. Murphy's chortling and clapping told him that he agreed with this wondrous plan.

Thus, their evening ended just like any other. In two weeks, they'd reach their twenty-seventh birthday, and just as they had for every other, they'd drink, sing, chat, and celebrate, tossing all cares out the window and forgetting all that made them what they were.


	11. Epilogue

"Ow. Easy, easy."

The tattooist, a woman adorned in facial piercings and several feet worth of body ink, looked at Murphy, who gave his burning neck a rest for a moment while she waited for him to let her know when to continue.

"I told you how much a neck tattoo would hurt," she reminded him, dabbing blood off of his skin with a cloth. As the needle touched his skin again, he winced and clamped his fingers onto Connor's knuckles, causing his brother to grunt at the sensation of his hand being crunched.

"Let up a little, Murph, yer killin' meh here," he moaned through gritted teeth.

"M'sorry," he squeaked, letting up a bit. "Ugh, it fuckin' _kills._"

"Great," Connor sighed. "I look forward to mine, den."

"You're almost done," the tattoo artist told Murphy, who couldn't wait for it to be over. "You said you wanted the forearm done, too?"

"Aye. And my hand. But… not today, right?" If he had to sit in that uncomfortable leather chair getting poked and sketched on with needles anymore that day, he might pass out.

As she dabbed the skin of his neck, drying the dots of blood on it, she chuckled. "No. You'll have to make a follow-up. You know those are going to hurt like hell, right?"

"Like… define hell."

"_Hell._"

"Ah. I see, den." He grabbed Connor's hand again as she finished up the job, and Connor just bared it until it was over. When she finally got done with the black ink tattoo of Mary Magdalene on Murphy's neck, she provided him a small handheld mirror. He turned his head to the side and checked out the artwork in the reflection, then grinned.

"Worth it," he told Connor.

"Better be, fer de cost of it," his twin mumbled beneath his breath. Connor took a seat in the chair next after it was sanitized and a new needle was put in. Murphy was kind enough to provide his own hand for squeezing this time around, though he couldn't endure it as well as Connor did.

Following that adventure with pain, they met up with Rocco, who was sitting in one of the many cushioned seats of the waiting area. He chuckled as soon as they came into view. "Heard you guys whimpering like sissies in there."

Murphy balled up his fist and Connor pushed it down. "_You_ try gettin' one, ya asshole," he told him. "On yer _neck._"

"No thanks. Who said you had to get them on your necks anyway? Is there a 'see how much pain you can put yourself through' contest you guys are trying to win?"

"A tattoo's got no meanin' if ya didn't suffer fer it," Murphy sneered.

"Sure, Murph. Whatever you say." He stood up and headed for the door, and the twins joined him, climbing into his car. "Oh. By the way. Happy birthday."

Murphy glanced at an invisible watch. "Oh! He's only… what, eight hours late?"

"Clearly, Roc didn't set 'is alarm fer give-a-fuck o'clock."

"Get off my case," grumbled Rocco. "Do you know what I had to deal with this morning? That little blondie you two dumped off on me…"

"Rayvie," Connor confirmed.

"Yeah, whatever. She got in my face because I yelled at my girlfriend. _My_ girlfriend! What business is it of hers how I talk to Donna?!"

"Good to see she's fittin' in, den," Connor laughed, he and Murphy lighting a pair of cigarettes.

"Ya oughta pat yerself on de back fer lettin' her stay," Murphy added between puffs and exhales. "Ya did a good service to de community."

"Like hell I did. All I did was add to the noise pollution in my neighborhood. Oh well. At least she and Donna go out a lot now. I don't have to deal with either of them."

Connor couldn't help but bring it up. "Yeh, about dat…"

He sighed. "I know what you're going to say, Connor! And you know what? Maybe you're right. I should get rid of the fuckin' bitch. But, as I'm sure you know, it's not going to suck itself."

Connor and Murphy exchanged amused glances before busting out a song of laughs. "Aye. I might know a t'ing or two about dat."

"Besides, I can't get much better. She might be a bitch, but she's an attractive one."

"Yer attractive too, man! Give yerself some credit!"

"Aye," agreed Murphy. "Ya got de true eighties porn star t'ing goin'. Girls melt over dat shit." Connor stifled giggles at that comment, snorting.

"How the fuck would _you_ know what girls 'melt' over, Murphy? When was the last time you looked at one?"

"Dere was one in de tattoo parlor."

"I mean _looked_ at one. If you didn't try to stare down her shirt, you didn't really look at her."

"_What?!_" Connor belted, cracking up and keeling over,

Murphy's broken giggles stopped for a moment for him to say, "Oh, man, no wonder girls fawn over ya. Yer a fuckin' _charmer_, man."

"Aye. A regular Patrick Swayze." More laughter. "No dirty dancin' fer you, my boy."

"At least not of de sleazy kind."

"You know what? You two can go fuck each other." He glowered when they erupted into louder amusement. "Oh wait, _you already do._ Yeah, that's way better than my relationship! Can't find a girlfriend, so you hop on the _brocest_ train."

"Calm down, Roc, we're only playin'," said Connor, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"We could find girlfriends if we wanted," Murphy clarified. "We don't want 'em."

"Can't say that they'd be looking for 'recently screwed own brother' on the dating resume, anyway." He shook his head, his long hair swaying.

When Connor saw that Murphy was ready to retort, he slapped a hand on his leg and shook his head at him. Murphy rolled his eyes, but he let it go. Rocco dropped them off at home and told them he'd meet them at the bar that night, and he'd buy them some birthday shots.

Once inside, they both hung their rosaries on a pair of hooks beside the doorway, and Connor took a brief, silent moment to watch them sway like metronomes. They were the last remaining bit of evidence, other than their memories, of their friendship with Eric. News reports had spoken of his murder with extreme doubt and confusion, and though they had a lot to say on the mystery of the detective's death, not a single person had any clue as to who his murderer was. Perhaps the investigation was stalled due to the amounts of documentation in Eric's safe that proved his involvement in hundreds of past murder cases, or, even more likely, they figured that whoever had killed Eric Malone had done the world some good.

_Good. _That wasn't a word Connor would use to describe himself, or Murphy, but it was what he aimed to be. Not just a good citizen, but a good person. Part of him feared that one day he might very well turn out like Eric, a cold-blooded killer with no feelings of regret or remorse, but he couldn't imagine it being so. After all, he had more than just himself to look out for.

"You okay?" called Murphy, who had started the shower and was busy undressing for it.

"Aye," answered Connor. "Lot on my mind." Turning toward Murphy, he smiled at the sight of him completely bare. If it was one thing that erased his troubles, it was that. While he stepped toward him, he stripped, then got underneath the shower with him.

_Where would we be now if we hadn't killed Eric?_ Questioned Connor's mind as Murphy's arms swung around his neck and he crafted that usual cheeky grin he always managed to get when they were wet and naked. _Would I feel better or worse about our lives? I suppose there's no telling, now._

What Connor did know was that he took a lot from his relationship with him. He would always be the same Connor he always used to be—but a shadow would always follow him now, as it would Murphy.

Murphy didn't have many thoughts on Eric's death, other than how relieved he was to see him gone. He did, however, find it hard to make peace with the fact that he took an innocent life. It floated around in the back of his mind, pricked at his every thought, and toyed with his emotions, which he kept even more protected than he had before. Connor would never judge him—of that he was certain now—but it was not Connor's judgment he feared any longer. It was that of the one who ran the show. Killing Eric might not have been enough to redeem his soul. If the opportunity ever presented itself to him, he'd take it without hesitation. He would set it right until his guilt faded away.

Until then, Connor had his remedies for helping him forget about it, and he would take that medicine every damn time, even if they had to keep it discreet. Each intimate moment they spent together was better than the last, especially as they got more creative with how they went about it. Murphy wouldn't deny that his favorite thing to do above all else was ride upon Connor's bucking, slamming hips, to feel the ultimate ecstasy of being physically united with him, overexerting every bit of his energy while putting it toward making the experience the greatest they ever had. To say he loved having sex with Connor would be a colossal understatement, and Connor didn't seem to deny it, either. Before they had shared that mortifying kiss in the bar that night, he would never have anticipated that they'd have something of this nature to enjoy together. In the end, it made all too much sense to him that they would. They already did everything else together. He hoped they went on like that forever and then some.

Their sex that evening, however, felt different than it usually did— not worse, by any means— but definitely _different_. Murphy once preferred Connor to be rough with him, liking a good dose of pleasurable pain, but he didn't ask for that this time around. Connor was grateful that he hadn't, because he had also treated it with more care than before. His touch was that of someone who was terrified of breaking something fragile, and Murphy's demeanor was softer, more affectionate than in their previous encounters. While he loved getting "fucked" by Connor, something about this gentler method made it feel a lot better.

They traded a few sweet words, dressed, then headed out to McGinty's, where a crowd of patrons was waiting for them, cheering a jubilant "Happy Birthday" at them. Connor and Murphy expected a couple of free drinks, but the whole bar ended up buying them more than they could handle. As they got sloshed, they got rowdier, and eventually gave them all a show by tackling each other in the middle of the room as their spectators betted on the winner of the amateur wrestling match.

Rocco showed up later than they expected, but they were glad he showed at all. After their awkward conversation in the car, they didn't think he'd have the stomach to. When he saw them wrestling and grunting on the floor like a couple of apes, he shook his head. He considered buying them drinks, but it looked to him like they had enough already.

Connor and Murphy went to work each day, and had even grown to like the job, as well as the people they worked with, who in turn began to treat them like family. Even their boss had grown accustomed to their wily antics by now, and they worked so well together, and so efficiently, that he couldn't bring himself to fire them whenever they stirred up trouble.

Every Sunday, they attended Catholic Mass, as they were brought up to do. Murphy slipped into the confessional at one point, surprising Connor by doing so. He never did tell him exactly what he confessed to, but whatever it was paled the priest's skin. Since that day, Murphy seemed a lot more relaxed and upbeat than Connor was used to seeing him. Their relationship seemed to strengthen beyond that point as well.

In the coming months, Murphy expressed his interest in returning to Ireland, and though Connor also wanted to, it was an extreme expense that they couldn't afford. He promised Murphy that they would someday, even if it meant using illegal means. In the meantime, they'd work their asses off to make enough for the trip. One of the only things holding them back was their friendship with Rocco.

If someone had told Connor that they'd kill hundreds more people, he'd never believe them. He'd also never take them seriously if they told him that on Saint Patrick's Day that year, he and Murphy would be brushing up on their violent skills once more, and would be perfecting them for many years yet to come.


End file.
